The Problem With Galas
by Mashpotatoe Queen
Summary: Galas are an issue, because something always goes wrong, and no one knows this better than the various wards and children of Bruce Wayne. It's a bit of a problem, actually, but they can always depend on Bruce to get him out of trouble. Featuring reporters, kidnappings, socialites, poor parenting, and more! (Batgirls and Robins are all included.)
1. To Build A Home

They were in a limo.

A few months ago, Dick would probably be ecstatic to simply be driving in any old car, much less a limo. (You just didn't _do_ automobiles in the circus, sticking with trains and elephants and horses and a long line of trailers for the daily transportation.)

But that would have been a few months ago. Now he just felt apprehensive and nervous and terribly _small_ , choked in his brand new suit that clenched at his neck and was _far_ too tight for any proper movement.

Bruce was sitting across from him, reading quickly through some last minute paperwork. Dick wondered what it was, and if Bruce would let him sit closer and read over his shoulder, or even help him, even though it would probably be boring and incomprehensible. It would, at the very least, keep his mind off his nerves.

But no, they were already pulling up at another massive house- _What was it with rich people and humongous mansions?_ \- and Bruce was shifting the papers back into a ledger, where they would be stored for the car ride home. Dick could see through the window the shifting shapes of people, could hear the muted chatter. He looked up at Bruce, biting his lip, and the older man had one of the look again, the one where he recognized that Dick was feeling upset or sad or anxious, but has not a single clue as to what to do about it.

But Bruce always tried, and Dick knew how to direct him, and that was the important thing.

He took the large calloused hand with his far smaller fingers, gripping it like a lifeline and trying not to sound _too_ terrified.

"Just for an hour, right?"

And Bruce smiled, that small twitch of the lips that meant he cared- that small smile that was Dick's secret, the greatest secret in the whole wide world, the one that came out for him alone and for no one else- and squeezed his fingers back.

"Just an hour."

The door opened.

Immediately, there was a barrage of flashing lights and yelling voices. Dick's heart stuttered in his chest; he had heard there would be reporters, but he hadn't been suspecting it to be like _this_. There were so many, and they were everywhere, and their faces were eager and predatory and suddenly hiding behind Bruce seemed like a really, _really_ great idea.

So he did just that.

Bruce was smiling, but not the kind of smile that Dick was used to. His smile was wide and bright, but in an overwhelmingly fake way. It was as if Bruce had suddenly become a different person, one of the many fancy people who lived in their big mansions and didn't care about the lowly lives of people like Dick. Dick swallowed, hard, and gripped Bruce's hand. He was scared, he was scared and he wanted _Bruce_ , not whatever persona the person besides him was.

The elder looked down on him, and for a second he was scared that the too wide smile wasn't going to go away. But then it softened and it was _his_ Bruce again, the real Bruce, and Dick felt overwhelmingly relieved.

"You alright, chum?"

 _Not really_ , was what he wanted to say, but he didn't. Instead he gave a small nod and an even smaller smile, giving the man's hand another squeeze. Bruce squeezed back, and they made their way across the bright red carpet and to the massive ornate doors, lights flashing and people shouting out questions all the while.

When they finally entered the building, it wasn't much better. The grand room was filled to the brim with fake looking people dressed to the nines and stretched smiles and cold eyes. Everywhere Dick looked all he could see was fakeness. _Fake, fake, fake_. Even Bruce's smile had turned too wide again, leaving the secure grip on Dick's own hand the only real thing in the entire scenario.

And then the guests converged. Suddenly, there were women pinching his cheeks and men ruffling his hair and everyone was asking questions- mainly to Bruce, but also to him- and introducing themselves and the colours became too bright and the noise too much and _has an hour passed yet? Please say an hour's passed…_

An hour had not passed.

But Bruce was by his side, providing a reassuring weight on Dick's shoulder with his palm. Giving him small tiny smiles when no one was looking, sometimes covertly gesturing at the occasional incredibly overzealous costume, his eyes twinkling as if to say _Get a load of that!,_ and Dick was scared and nervous and a jittering mess, hardly making it through his polite _Thank you_ 's and _I'm Dick Grayson, nice to meet you_ 's that Alfred had spent hours drilling into him, but with Bruce by his side, it wasn't _all bad_. It was, it was _tolerable,_ at the very least.

But then some fancy socialite was _physically lifting him away from Bruce_ in order "to get a better look at him" and he lost Bruce's hand on his shoulder and _No, no, no, no, not happening, not happening_ -

The socialite finished giving him a "proper look over" and slapped him on the back, hard, in what was probably meant to be a friendly gesture. Then the other left and Dick was left stranded, alone, _away from Bruce_.

But- But that was okay. The situation was still salvageable. He just had to get back to his guardian, that was all, and then everything would be fine.

It was easier thought than done, however, because the minute Dick had left Bruce's side, his spot had been filled. Bruce was just, _surrounded_ by people. By elderly men with greedy looks in their eyes and young woman with skimpy outfits and everything and everyone in between. And there was just _no room_ for him to squeeze through.

He tried to, anyways.

"Um, I- Excuse me! I'm, I'm really sorry, but- but would you mind, just, just letting me through? Please!? I, uh-"

But it was hopeless; no one listened to him or his quiet, stuttered words- English was _hard_ \- Bruce couldn't see him or hear him over the crowd, and everyone was just _ignoring_ him, their far larger frames getting in the way of his pathway to Bruce and then pushing him further back, until he was lost in the sea of mingling socialites, Bruce nowhere in sight.

He ended up by the snacks table, something solid behind his back while his eyes scanned for his guardian, but it was no use. He was just so- short. He was short. And he was unable to spot the elder man, even on the very tips of his toes.

And that… that really sucked.

It was by the mountains of towering food that Dick realized that the attention of the socialites had turned on him once again. He was suddenly the focus of the nearby crowd, and their cool unforgiving eyes were hardened upon him, judging him, and all he could do was tug slightly at the sleeves of his suit, eyes scanning even more frantically for Bruce even as the hushed conversation entered his ears.

 _"Circus freak-"_

 _"Trash."_

 _"Why would Brucie even take him in?"_

 _"Gypsy… can't be trusted-"_

 _"Give him a weak, at most-"_

 _"Charity case-"_

And the tears were back, making his eyes watery, but he couldn't even bring himself to care because there was panic building in his chest and his breaths weren't coming out right _and if Bruce could show up right now, that would be really great and_ -

Bruce didn't show up, and Dick was lost once more to the mingling crowds.

He ended up in a corner of the grand ballroom, a small tiny nook and cranny slightly away from all of the action that led to a servant's staircase of some sorts. The lights were dimmed, but the stairs were clean, and Dick sat down on it feeling exhausted and tired and miserable and lonely and _he would really like to go home, wherever that was, now, please, away from all the mean voices and judgmental gazes and everything was just too much_ -

And then he was crying, hiding his head in his knees and feeling bad because Alfred had _just_ bought him the suit and it must have been _so expensive_ and now he was covering it with snot and tears but he _just couldn't stop_ and-

Someone crouched down in front of him.

"You alright, kid?'

Dick looked up, eyes red and watery and small sniffles still escaping.

The thin man in the non-fancy tweed suit looked back, giving him something of a smile in greeting.

And- and the smile wasn't necessarily a _nice_ smile, but it wasn't one of the too wide fake ones that he had been seeing constantly throughout the night, and it was obvious that the man was trying to be concerned and comforting, even if he wasn't very good at it, and so Dick nodded a little and rubbed at his eyes.

"Y-yeah. I-I'm okay. I- Thank you."

He would have said more, but his throat hurt, and he was tired.

Had an hour passed yet? _Surely_ an hour had passed by this point.

Had Bruce realized? Was he looking for him?

Probably not, meaning that he would have to find Bruce and go from there.

"You sure? Is there anythin' I can do for ya?"

Dick hardly heard the man's words.

He bit his lip; he wouldn't be able to find Bruce by himself. And that meant he wouldn't get to leave. And that meant staying in this horrid place even _longer_.

But- but this man had offered to help! Maybe he could help him find Bruce?

"Umm, uh, ac- actually, would, would you mind-"

He didn't get any farther than that, because the thin man was bulldozing over him all of sudden, leaning into his personal space and the situation went from being _Okay, if slightly sucky_ \- he was out of the crowd, someone might be able to help him find Bruce, he would be able to go back to the manor soon- to _Bad, bad, bad, bad_ in mere moments.

"Great! If ya don't need anythin' can I ask you some questions? How's it like livin' with _the_ Bruce Wayne, kid? Is he nice? Is he spoiling you? Is he treatin' you rotten?"

Dick stared at the elder in incomprehension. The man was taking out something that suspiciously looked like a recorder, and he was just so _confused_. Wasn't the man offering his help but a few moments ago?

"W-What?"

The man's eyes gleamed, but in a greedy, cruel way, and Dick was liking this less and less by the minute.

"Is that it, kid? Is the man hurtin' ya? Is he hittin' ya? Are ya sufferin' from abuse?"

And- and no, that wasn't right. That wasn't right at all, but the man just wouldn't listen to him and-

"I- I- No. No- Bruce, Bruce is good. He's, he's really great, actually, and-"

"Ya don't have to lie to me, kid! 'Ol Brucie 'll never know if you tell me the truth. Is he threatenin' ya? Is that why ya won't squeal?"

 _Less and less and less._

"Wha-What? No! No, Bruce- Bruce would never hurt me. He's, he's really nice, and-"

The words weren't forming right in his mouth, and the man just kept leaning in closer, and his stomach was clenching again, his lungs constricting until there just wasn't enough _air_ , and no matter how far he leaned back the man just leaned in further. And he didn't like this, he didn't like this, he didn't like this _at all_.

 _He wanted to go home, he wanted to go home, he wanted to go home-_

"Is he forcin' ya to do stuff you're uncomfortable with? C'mon kid, give me a bite. What's the story?"

Reporter. This man was a reporter. Dick suddenly felt so _stupid_ , because _of course the guy was a reporter_ , and if he wasn't feeling so panicky and _trapped_ he would have slapped his own forehead.

As it was…

"I- I, uh, I gotta go!"

He stood up, weaving around the reporter's crouched frame and towards the exit of the staircase, back to the mingling throngs of people. He was almost halfway there when the other caught up with him, placing a heavy hand on his shoulder.

"Where ya goin' kid? I'm just askin' some questions!"

Dick shrugged the appendage off with some difficulty, hurrying back down the steps as soon as he was free.

"I- Bruce says 'm not supposed to talk to reporters!"

And then he was almost home free, actually escaping the confines of the staircase and on his way towards the mingling throngs of people when the man caught up with him again, this time grabbing his wrist.

"Why are you so eager to get away!? What's Bruce hidin'!? Tell me, kid, tell me!"

And it was too much. It was too much, and the man's grip was painfully tight, untrimmed nails biting into his flesh no matter how he twisted and tugged at his wrist. And he didn't like this, _he didn't like this_. He just wanted everything to stop. He wanted to get away, and it hurt, it hurt, and the guy was asking him about his parents- _pale lifeless bodies cracking against the ground, and there's blood everywhere, and oh God, no, no, no, please no, they can't be dead, they can't_ \- and-

"Sto-Stop! You're hurting me! Stop!"

His voice was rising in pitch, louder and louder, and he was starting to attract attention and tears were now streaming down his face and people were staring- _He was causing a scene, he didn't want to cause a scene, why couldn't he not cause a scene!?_ \- but, but he didn't really care anymore because he was scared and he needed help. He wanted to go _home_ , but he didn't even know where that _was_ anymore and, and-

He wanted his mom. He wanted his dad. He wanted someone to just come and make all the bad things go away, to hold him and comfort him until the world was a little better and he was okay again and- And he wanted- He just- He just wanted-

"B-Bruce! BRUCE! H-Help! BRUUCEEE!"

And he was outright screaming. And the reporter finally seemed to realize that people were staring, and now he was trying to calm Dick down. But Dick didn't want to calm down, he wanted Bruce, and the guy's grip was really starting to hurt now and-

And then suddenly the hand grasping his wrist was gone and there was the sound of someone's fist cracking solidly against someone's nose but, more importantly, he was being swept up into large strong arms, cradled to a man's chest as if he could be protected from the rest of the world by that sheer gesture alone and _Oh, Bruce_ \- because he would recognize his guardian's grip anywhere- and he could relax now, things would be okay, everything was going to be _okay_.

But he was still shaking, sobbing maybe a little pathetically into Bruce's shoulder, and his wrist hurt and everything around him was unnaturally silent but he didn't dare look up, because he was pretty sure he wouldn't be able to stand the stares, and-

And Bruce was chewing the reporter out, even as he slowly slipped a hand though Dick's hair. He heard the guy sputter, and Bruce very nearly _growled,_ and then the sounds of the journalist dropping his things and practically _running_ away.

And then there was silence, except for Dick's own sniffling sobs.

But then Bruce was gently tugging his head out of its hidden crook between the elder's neck and shoulder, and he didn' _t want to_ , but he did so anyways, because Bruce was staring at him with worried eyes, free hand fluttering gently around his face.

"Dick, Dick, you alright, chum? Did he hurt you? I- Jesus, Dick, you scared me; I couldn't find you _anywhere_ and- and that's not important. Are you okay?"

Dick stared at him- only at him, because he wanted to ignore their massive, judging audience- and his eyes were still wet and scratchy and he was still so _tired_ and panicky in his chest, that constant ache for _safety_ and _home_ yet to be soothed, but it was, _somehow_ , better now that Bruce was here, and so he gathered his strength before tentatively showing his wrist to his guardian.

The skin was bright red from all his squirming and the tight grip, small crescent moons of blood left behind from the man's nails.

Bruce looked absolutely _livid_ , and for a few moments Dick thought the anger was aimed at _him_ , but then, no, the elder's face was calming and he was examining Dick's wounded appendage with gentle touches and a concerned air, and maybe Bruce wasn't the _best_ at this parenting thing, but he was certainly getting _better_.

But Dick was just so, so tired, and he honestly didn't think he could take much more of the judgemental stares and the slowly seeping gossipy whispers that had begun to filter into his ears, filling up the prior silence.

"Bruce? Has- has an hour passed yet?"

His words were mumbled, because he had hidden his face in Bruce's neck again, hugging the older man for all his worth. And maybe Bruce understood that that meant he needed a little comfort, because he was slowly, tentatively, placing an arm around Dick in return, humming slightly under his breath as they made their way out of the building.

"Yeah, chum, we're good. Let's go home."

And so they went.

And hours later, they were sitting in front of some random Disney movie- _Treasure Planet_ , he was pretty sure, although he was really too tired to care- and Dick's head was heavy on Bruce's shoulder, his stomach full from ice cream and his tears long since dried, and he thinks, _Oh, home_.

He smiled and fell asleep, his question finally answered.


	2. Actors Playing Pretend

**Hey!**

 **I have so much I should be doing, including other fics, but I figured I would post what I have and start from there.**

 **Sorry for the delay, everybody.**

 **-The Mashpotatoe Queen**

 **...**

Never let it be said that Dick Grayson wasn't a brilliant actor. Because he was. He really and truly was. Five hours into the absolutely ridiculous gala, filled with condescending glares and pitying glances and judging looks and mocking whispers and constant, deadly boring streams of useless _How do you do_ 's and _Nice to meet you_ 's and _Very well_ 's and the oh so dreaded _Twelve now, actually, not eleven_ 's. And, of course, people trying to warm up to him to get to Bruce and no guardian in general, as the elder man was surrounded by far too many socialites to even _think_ about attempting an intervention to get to his side...

And yet, he hadn't snapped, not once. His smile was still firm on his face and no one had been judo flipped, and he deserved a freakin' Tony award after this because he was _just that good._

Also, he had yet to die of boredom, which was a plus and a very defined skill as well.

Bruce owed him big time, for this. Like, giving Robin some solo nights during patrol, big time. He had _earned_ it.

At last, he had managed to sweet talk enough fancy rich people in another direction to find himself in a mostly unoccupied corridor. Ducking in between two pillars, Dick allowed himself to thunk his head on the wall behind him, to close his eyes and just breathe for a second, to let the persona drop. According to his watch, he had just another forty five minutes to go, and then he could grab Bruce and get the hell out of dodge and back to the Manor, _back to home_ , and all would be well once more.

Which was good, because, in all honesty, his leg was starting to hurt after all this standing around, the still healing bone aching underneath the expensive fabric.

Two Face was nasty at the best of times.

His thoughts of escape were interrupted when someone cleared their throat, and for half a moment his mind goes berserk- _because, oh no, it was a reporter, wasn't it, it was always an reporter, why did it always have to be a reporter, he_ hated _reporters_ \- but then he opened his eyes and was pleasantly surprised to find that it was simply one of the walking waiters, a tray of what looked like orange juice balanced in his palm.

"Would ya like a drink, lad?"

And Dick blinked, because this was a little out of the way for a waiter, they usually tended to stay in the center of the crowds or enroute to the kitchen for refills, but then he shrugged the thought away. After all, he couldn't be the only one who got tired of masses of people and constant loud, annoying, often highly fake sounding chatter. And, even more so, he didn't know how the patrons of this gala ran their ship: perhaps they liked having a couple of roving waiters waiting on the outside, prepared to serve any outcasts.

So he said sure, grabbed one of tha glasses and raised it to his lips, and then paused.

"Wait, this isn't alcoholic, right?"

The man smiled a little crookedly, his face tilted to the side and half covered in shadow.

"You think I would serve alcohol to a minor?"

(Briefly his mind flashes back, to another man with a crooked face, one side normal and one side deteriorated, and a crowbar and _pain,_ but he brushes it aside, because that's not here, that's not _now_ , _he was safe, he was safe…_ )

Dick grinned, raising the glass to his lips once again.

"Just checking."

You could never be too sure, after all, at a socialite's party.

(And he was one of the greatest actors in the world, he was sure…)

The liquid was sweet, almost overly so, but cold and refreshing, if not with the slightest hint of a strange aftertaste. Dick rolled the flavor along his tongue, took another sip, trying to place it. Mango? Melon? No, no, not that…

And, huh, wasn't that weird. The waiter was wandering off, but in the completely wrong direction of any guests. In fact, he was opening an exit door that lead to one of the many high railed terraces, why would he do that?

And there were people heading toward him in suits, and he almost groaned, because he did _not_ want to engage in more polite conversation right now, and his head was really starting to feel quite funny and his limbs really starting to feel rather uncoordinated, and he tried to raise his hand to take another sip of the juice but his fingers weren't working quite right and his glass was dropping shattering on the ground below and spilling smooth orange liquid on his tuxedo.

Dick looked down at his pant legs and frowned, because Alfred would be so sad because he had _liked_ this suit and had spent a lot of time tailoring it for him and-

And the suited men were grabbing his arms and directing him towards the door to the terrace, and wait, that wasn't right, why were they doing that, _why were they holding him, let go, let go, why wouldn't they let go_ -

"H-Hey, wha- whus goin' on?"

Was that his voice? It sounded wrong. Mumbled. Slurred.

His head hurt.

And then he realized what that tangy aftertaste was, why his thoughts were so muffled and his limbs so uncoordinated; it was some sort of drug, and a strong one as well, and _Oh man, oh man, Bruce was going to_ kill _him_ -

He began to struggle in earnest, but it was too late, they were already outside, and the cool night air was refreshing but the hands bruising his arms were not and he would _definitely_ take being bored over this…

And he was yelling, now, and digging his heels into the ground, and the men were getting restless, one of them slamming his _disgusting_ sweaty grimy fingers over his mouth to keep him quiet.

Dick, as drugged out of it as he was, took mild pleasure in the way the man yelped when he bit him.

But then there was something pointed being jammed in his neck and another hand over his mouth, and it stung, and if Bruce- or even better, Batman, who could actually fight without it being suspicious- could show up right at this moment and stop this whole fiasco before it even began, that would be really, really great...

And the needle being dragged out stung, but the pain was quickly fading into a scary dull numbness, and the world was wavering in and out of focus, now, lights blurring into massive supernovae before his very eyes, and his head was beginning to really pound, even as his useless legs decided to finally give up on life and buckle, leaving the man holding him tight by the waist the only thing keeping him upright.

The fingers were slipping from his mouth now, but he had no mind to yell, because his eyes were getting heavy and his brain was shutting down, and someone was picking him up and swinging him over their shoulder and moving in heavy, swinging motions that made Dick sick to his stomach. His last thoughts were on Bruce, because there _had_ to be less than forty five minutes before their time to spend at the gala was up, and Dick is supposed to pop up at Bruce's side, smile charmingly, and then proceed to drag him to the limo.

When he didn't show up, Bruce would know something was wrong. He would know. And then he would come and find him. He always did.

 _He… He always did…._

 _Always…._

But his thoughts could not linger, for the blackness was swallowing him whole…

And then there was nothing but darkness.

* * *

At one point, he woke.

His vision was blurry and there were lights and flashing colours pressing into his eyeballs, and someone was holding him upright- heaven knows he wouldn't have been able to do it himself- and there was something cold and sharp pressed against his neck ( _a knife?_ ) and people were shouting everywhere. He almost thought he heard Bruce, and so he tried to open his eyes again, but then he was being dragged backwards, dragged away, dragged away from Bruce, so he tugged at the arms holding him because _that wasn't right, he belonged with Bruce_ -

And a completely different kind of metal- a needle, he didn't like those- was being driven into his neck again and the world was gone, gone, gone again, and the whole experience was so surreal and distant he dismissed it as a dream as everything faded from view once more...

* * *

He woke up in a van.

Or, he was pretty sure it was in a van, because he could feel the vibrations of an engine against his cheek and he could spot a strange lump in the room- _trunk?-_ he was in that hinted at a tire….

But- But that would make no sense? Wasn't he… wasn't he at a gala? With Bruce? If they were going home, why wasn't Bruce with him? And why was he in the trunk of a van and not in their limo? And why did it smell so bad? And where was Alfred? _And why was he tied up? He wasn't supposed to be tied up, being tied up was bad, bad, bad_ …

But then the half remembered tang of orange juice on his tongue and the sharp jab of a needle was in his neck, and he let his pounding head rest heavy. This wasn't… This wasn't good. This wasn't how the night was supposed to turn out. At all. He was supposed to be back at the manor, suiting up for some light late night patrol, not tied up and drugged in the back of a van….

He was tied up and drugged in the back of a van.

 _Not good, not good, not good_ -

But no, no he couldn't panic. He _wouldn't_ panic. Panicking never helped anyone, ever. This was fine. He was fine. It was just some lowly life thugs who just wanted to make a little money. He was Dick Grayson, right now, not Robin, _they just wanted a little money, and Bruce would find him, and everything was going to be okay_ -

His mind flashed back, to the warehouse, to Scarecrow and Two Face and the crow bar and the fear gas raging everywhere, to being scared, to hurting, to thinking W _here is Batman? Batman is supposed be here by now_ … and those thoughts slowly reverting to _Bruce!? Bruce where are you!? Bruce, he's hurting me, it hurts, make it stop, make it_ stop….

His breath hitched, and then he gagged as the motion brought his attention to the dirtied cloth stuffed in his mouth.

But then there was just too little _air_ and he couldn't _breathe_ and why was it always at a gala that this happened? _Why, why, why_ … He was never going to go to another one for as long as he lived…. _And where did all the air go, again!?_

And maybe he was being louder than he thought, because that was the car parking roughly, and then someone was yanking the back door open and pulling him upright, and he would be mad at the manhandling but all he really cared about was how the guy yanked off his gag and he could spit out the cloth and _breathe_ again.

He put his head between his knees, feeling dizzy and sick to his stomach at the slightest motion, and he hated how he knew that his kidnappers were watching him, hated how weak he was being, but he focused on breathing, just focused on breathing….

Eventually, he became aware that the men were chatting and there was the sounds of a highway in the distance. He blinked, eyes blurry and head still feeling stuffed with fluff, and shifted a little, testing the guy's grip on his arm without making it to obvious he was doing so.

But his limbs felt uncoordinated and unconnected to his brain, and the next thing he knew the guy was pounding him on the back- which drew out a ragged cough from his over abused lungs- and he was being thrown into the back of the truck once more, head cracking smartly against the floor.

His ears were ringing, and his eyelids were closing, and everything ached and there would be bruises in the morning, and his eyes were feeling suspiciously wet but _hell_ , he was _not_ going to cry-

The car jerked off again, and he was shifted around with the luggage, and every movement _hurt_ , and his still healing leg felt like it was on fire, and he was honestly going to outright throw up soon, and Bruce _still_ wasn't here yet, and in those moments Dick Grayson decided that he could stand to lose a few hours.

His eyes closed, and the darkness took over his vision once more.

* * *

The third time he woke, he was tied to a chair and his brain was actually active enough to function even though it was pounding and everything was aching, and the fact that he was pretty sure he had bruises in places on him he didn't even know existed…

And then bile was coming up to his throat and he was swallowing it back down, keeping very, very still.

Because he wasn't alone in the room, there were others, and he didn't want to 'wake up' because that would mean pain.

Mildly, in the back of his mind, he wished Bruce would hurry up and get him, because, surprisingly, the knots tying him to the chair were really good, and his numb fingers and his drugged up mind and his terror fueled body- _because it was happening again, oh no, oh god no, not again-_ weren't able to untie them.

He felt so _uncoordinated_ , as if he wasn't in control of his own body, and his right ear kept ringing and his left leg kept burning and there was a narrow cut that kept stinging on his neck and his eyes felt so, so tired that he could probably just fall asleep…

And then someone slapped him. Hard.

His head jerked sideways in surprise, and _Ow, that hurt_ , and almost against his conscious decision his eyes were flickering open, gazing at the man above him in an almost confused sort of way- because _Why would you even do that?_ \- even as his brain mentally slapped itself because he knew why, these people were bad guys, and they could care less that he was a minor and an innocent.

To them, he would always just be a means to an end.

And even though his spirits were low and his brain was slow in thought process and his hands were tied with scratchy rope and that slap was sure to bruise and his leg had red hot strings of pain jolting up it from where it was tied to the stool base, even then, he was a brilliant actor.

( _He had had worse.)_

"Wha- What do ya want from me? Le-Let me go."

 _Oooh, slurring. Nice touch, Grayson._

The man slapped him again, and his head jerked again, and at this rate he was probably going to get whiplash. The guy was holding his face, squishing his cheeks, and the whole situation was distinctly uncomfortable.

He blinked up at the man, face still squashed, thoughts still heavy and slow.

The man was yelling.

"Get the camera set up; let's give 'ol Brucie a heads up, eh?"

Oh. _Oh_ , that was not good. _Not good, not good, not good._

Dick jerked his face out of the man's grasp, and he knew that his skin was blanched white and he knew that something bad was gonna happen, that the camera being set up in front of him was _never_ a good sign, and if Batman could show up and save the day _right this second, please_ -

The red light flickered on, and the video began.

At first, the guy was just talking, and Dick allowed himself a couple of moments to hope. Maybe, maybe this was just going to be one of those times where he got to sit in the background and look scared and didn't actually have to get hurt. Maybe, this time, his skills as an actor would be enough. Maybe, this time, he wouldn't have to be more of a victim than he already was-

A solid punch to the jaw changed his mind, and his head was dizzy and his neck really was starting to burn from the sudden jerkings and his leg was straining from it's tightened position on the stool.

He felt something wet and warm trickle down onto his collar bone. The knife cut must have broken open again.

Another punch to the jaw.

He spat out blood, the copper taste filling his mouth.

And his head was becoming stuffy again from pain, everything ached and his limbs still felt so _jittery_ and uncoordinated and he just really, _really_ wanted to go home, _right about now would be great._

He felt cold, and the guy was boasting again, and-

And, and he felt cold.

 _Had he already thought that?_

He could have argued. He could have yelled. He could have been a complete smart alec and spat on the man's shoes. But he didn't. That was Robin. That was Robin and right now he was playing the role of Dick Grayson, and he was far too good an actor to ever slip up like that.

( _He was tired, and his head hurt, and his everything hurt, and he was drugged up and tied up and it would probably be better if he kept his mouth shut._ )

He let his head go lax, his eyes flicking this way and that, the man was going to let Bruce speak to him soon, that was almost always the drill, and as long as they didn't drug him again he could help-

There. Window. They were at a pier. They were at a warehouse at a pear. He smelt salt water- Ocean. Gotham had rivers, and one decently sized lake nearby. So warehouse, a few hours out of Gotham, he would reckon.

( _He wanted to go home. What would get him home the fastest?_ )

Now to play the part.

Sure enough, a phone was shoved between his ear and shoulder, some thug's hand keeping it in place even as the man's disgusting breath filtered in Dick's nose.

A breath. Even drugged up with whatever they had given him and no small amount of pain, Dick was a master at Batanese. In fact, some would say that he was at the top of his game when he was in moments such as these.

Dick wasn't so sure. He just knew that he prefered playing with words and finding hidden meanings when he could actually see straight and all the colours weren't tinted yellow.

"...B?"

 _Where are you?_

Another, this one relieved.

"Dick. Hey. Hey, stay right where you are, kay bud? The police are looking for you."

 _The kidnapping was public, Brucie's under watch: no Batman. Police are closing in, though. Sit tight. Don't escape on your own. Location?_

"Hmm… Don't feel so good, Bruce…. warehouse smells salty…"

 _At a warehouse next to the ocean._

"Are you okay? Dick?"

 _Is there need for an ambulance?_

"...Put somethin' in m' drink…"

 _Drugged up, but no life threatening injuries._

"Okay, okay, kiddo, we're comin' for ya. It's going to be alright."

 _We're close._

"Bru-GAH!"

Someone had taken his tied up fingers and smashed them.

He curled into himself as far as the ropes would allow, breath hitching painfully after the initial yelp, and that was _fire_ coursing through his fingers, and he was squeezing his eyes shut, because even brilliant actors cried for real sometimes.

There was pressure being placed on his fingers now, and it was burning, and the man holding the phone to his ear still had a horrible breath and Bruce was talking in his ear, voice a little louder and a little more panicked (just a little, though, because this was _Bruce_ that was talking) asking worried questions and Dick just needed the elder man to _shut up_ for just one second- _No, no, don't shut up, don't ever shut up, he was hurting and he was scared and he needed Bruce to be here, not on a phone a thousand miles away, please hurry up, please come_ \- and he just needed to _breathe_ for just one second.

And he was an actor, and he managed a soft _Fine_ for the worried voice in his ear, even though he was far from it.

He felt sick, face pale and soaked in sweat, head heavy and stuffed in cotton balls, limbs unresponsive and achy, fingers bruised and swollen and possibly broken, and a small constant sting zipping it's way through his body, making his arms and legs spasm with random jitters he had no control over.

 _Withdrawal_ , his mid supplied. But that wasn't right… _Overdose?_

And he was an actor, and he sat still and silent, breathing heavily and listening to the soothing tones in his ear until it was dragged away, and then kept right on breathing, even though all he really wanted to do was cry.

And he was an actor, and he made his heart rate slow to a quiet pace and his body slouch in all it's natural angles, and he closed his eyes and waited for all the men surrounding him to notice that their charge had supposedly fallen unconscious.

 _He was tired_.

And he was an actor, and he kept still and breathing slowly, ignoring the pain and ignoring the humiliation, as one by one the thugs lost interest and left.

 _So, so tired._

And he was an actor, and he kept still until the sirens started ringing and there was shouting and gunshots, and the police and paramedics had arrived, storming the room and untying the ropes, flashing lights in his eyes and rattling off questions.

And as he was an actor, he chose to ignore said questions and said lights. They were for some other role, he was sure. No, there was only one course of story meant for him.

He looked at the woman in front of him, asked his question, and pretended to himself that the slur was on purpose.

"...Bruce?"

The woman fell silent, and as he was an actor, so he put a bit of desperate youngness in his eyes, and she gave in.

 _Totally deserve a Tony, and maybe an Oscar, too._

So they lead him outside, and he made his steps stumbly and lethargic, like a newly born lamb- or maybe that wasn't on purpose, he wasn't sure anymore- and he ignored the pounding headache and his clenching stomach, eyes wide and searching.

When they fell on Bruce, he broke away from the officer's guiding hands, simply allowing himself to collapse in the elder man's arms, broken fingers tucked closely to his own chest. Bruce was swiping his fingers through his hair, and Dick knew that the black locks were probably tangled and dirtied, matted with blood, but he couldn't bring himself to care; Bruce was an actor as well, he could always play pretend.

And Dick Grayson was an actor, a brilliant one at that, and he could smile and lie and pretend with his actions and words, keep two separate identities a part without a second thought, but even more impressive he could lie to himself, create an illusion of safety and calm when there was no such thing. He could say stumbling was a choice instead of mandatory, and that his hurts were minimal when indeed they were many, and that was a skill few could claim.

But Bruce was an actor, one even better than him, and he knew all the tricks, all the ploys, all the signs that one thing was another when one thing was not, and if Dick was an actor, and Bruce was an actor…

Then it would be okay, for a little while, to stop playing pretend.

And Dick closed his eyes, let his head rest heavy, clutched in the embrace of a man that meant more than the whole wide world, and there would be hospitals and sirens and questions, but that wasn't now, and he could be fine by then.

He would be fine by then. That was an actor's job.

For now… for now he thought it okay if he stayed right where he was, safe in Bruce's arms, exhausted and cold and hurting, maybe a little broken, but finally, finally home.

 **...**

 **Many thanks to Loftcat27, PhoenixFlair13, White Canary 2120, Estel-Undomiel25, roxassoul, livingwithbooks, Breeza00, sjangelkyu, Persassy1993, icechick94, Kyrianae Narii, SexCatNoir, Pottergirl3333, BetelgeuseOfTheOwls, A Small Voice, AnonymousCat79, DisneyDragon, and The Wonder Fan for their kind follows and favourites!**

 **HUGE MASSIVE SPARKLY THANK YOUS TO Dossypet, Haro kzoids, J.J. Norris, Echoes 01, and Nightwinglover05 for such wonderful supportive reviews!**

 **Hope you enjoyed and thank you for reading!**


	3. Of Ocean Creatures and Wind Blown Sails

**ANOTHER CHAPTER. BOOM.**

 **In which Jason is elevan, utterly unimpressed with this whole gala thing, very much done with rich people and way too used to going it alone, Bruce is trying to make sure his kid doesn't kill anyone, and there are socialites.**

 **...**

Jason Todd did not like galas.

He did not like suits, which choked him like they're sole purpose in life was to suffocate him. He did not like the strange fancy finger food that tasted like it was made of either paper or goo, with no in between. He did not like the shouted questions and bright flashes of cameras, or really reporters in general. He did not like the too expensive decorating, where most of the stuff was more expensive than his mom's entire old apartment. He did not like the wide open spaces where there was nowhere to hide or easily escape from.

Jason Todd. Did. Not. Like. Galas.

In fact, the only thing Jason Todd hated _more_ than the galas themselves was the people that attended the things in the first place.

 _Socialites._

Bruce had taken him aside right before boarding one of his many limos- _And why does one man need so many cars? Why?-_ and placed his hands on Jason's shoulders, saying, "Just one hour, okay champ? One hour and then we're out of there."

Jason had nodded and rolled his eyes. Bruce had smiled and sort of looked like he wanted to ruffle Jason's hair, only to not do it at the last second. (Probably because of the hair gel. Alfred had taught him how to put in, and Jason thought he did it rather well.) He would have knocked the hand away if the older man had tried it, but the fact that Bruce even considered doing it was… nice.

Not that he would say that out loud.

( _He had a reputation to maintain, after all.)_

Right before exiting the limo, Bruce had put a hand on Jason's shoulder and had said, partly hopefully and partly cautiously, "Try not to bite their heads off _too much,_ yeah?"

At the time, Jason wasn't really sure what Bruce was talking about.

How he wished he would have remained in ignorant bliss.

Socialites are _idiots._ Even worse, they're _pigheaded idiots._

His first plan of attack had been to simply stick by Bruce's side and the older man take all the attention, questions, and torture, thus leaving him to his own devices. Would it be boring? Sure. But it wouldn't be too bad.

After the third old lady with _way_ too much makeup on to be healthy had pinched his cheek- _and really, he was eleven, not two-_ and commented on how cute he was, Jason had figuratively thrown that plan out the window, and half contemplated the idea of jumping out after it in a far more literal sense.

He didn't, but it was a close call, and he wouldn't say the concept wasn't out of the workshop completely: if he got _really_ desperate, Jason was 86.3% sure that he could clamber down the sides of the building without breaking anything.

The point was, he couldn't stick by Bruce. The man was like a giant lighthouse to every rich smoozcher in the entire city. He couldn't track more attention if he wrote SUPER RICH GUY on his forehead with bright pink sharpie.

...which would be really funny, actually, when Jason thought about it. He would have to add it to his list of pranks.

He smirked. Evilly.

 _Perhaps this gala would be good for something after all!_

"Is that that Todd boy?"

 _Never mind. Spoke too soon. Abort! Abort!_

Jason scowled. His spot between two window sills had been spotted and zeroed in on, a group of rich people making their way towards him with fast yet somehow slow and relaxed looking movements. He couldn't help but feel like a guppy in the middle of a great sea of sharks, and it was not an analogy that he liked applying to himself.

But that was fine. Those sharks were about to learn that this guppy had _teeth._

The first lady, the one who had spoken with such a disdainful voice in the first place, had a ball gown on that probably had enough fabric to make a tent that could easily shelter a family of five, and a prominent cleft chin in the midst of her rather heavy set features. Jason decided to call her 'Buttface.'

The man by Buttface's arm was, in contrast, almost twig like in comparison. His expression was tightly pursed, lips puckered downwards as if sucking on something extremely tart and unpleasant, and his blue orbs were watery and judging from their sunken depths. He was dubbed 'Lemonwuss.'

Behind them was another couple, slightly older than the first. The man, while of handsome enough features with his sturdy jawline and peppered hair, had a cruel gleam to his eye. Jason nicknamed him 'Gatsby,' because Gatsby was rich and self centered, and this man seemed to fill all the criteria as well.

The final lady had a massive plume of hair that was obviously a wig and so much red lipstick that Jason was quite sure she wouldn't be able to taste anything but makeup for days. For lack of a better name, he called her 'Ruby Lady,' and vowed to think of a better title later.

The socialites circled closer, slicing through the crowds like fins through water, and Jason quickly looked around for an escape route that he could take that wouldn't be too obvious.

There wasn't any.

So he sighed and straightened up a bit. It couldn't be that bad, right?

 _Wrong!_

It was very, very bad.

"I do believe you're right, Karen," said Gatsby, his thin lips turning upwards in a smarmy smile that Jason instantly hated. Buttface- that is, Karen, although he wasn't going to call her that- nodded serenely, peering down at him from several feet away as one might peer down at a particularly disgusting rotting worm corpse.

"Hmm," remarked Ruby Lady, "I don't know _how_ Brucie manages. I mean, just look at the boy! He's obviously feral."

Jason bristled.

Lemonwuss took a sip of his drink- smacking his lips afterwards far too loudly to not be on purpose, in Jason's humble opinion- and nodded serenely, as if he had some higher power knowledge about the entire world.

"I believe the man has had one too many drinks. I mean, really, letting a _street rat_ into his home. The thing's probably going rob him blind-"

 _Aaaaand_ Jason was done. If Bruce asked, he could cite his remarkable patience and his solid attempt at ignoring the comments. He could also cite how he was defending the man's honour. That ought to earn him _some_ favor, right?

Didn't matter. Those idiots were going _down._

"Um, yeah, _hi._ This street rat would like you prissies to stop talking about him as if he's not literally _three feet away from you."_

Gatsby frowned.

"Young man, that sort of language really isn't appropr-"

Jason crossed his arms.

"Shut it. You don't get to preach on manners after insulting me _to my face_."

Ruby Lady raised her chin, speaking overly loudly even as she put on a face of fake scandalized shock over her features.

"See, what did I tell you, Ronald! Positively _feral-"_

He rounded on her, pointing accusingly even as he scowled, "At least I'm not some vain scarecrow who feels the need to wear a _wig_ of all things-"

And now Lemonwuss was taking a few steps forward, towering over Jason with his lips even more heavily pursed and his eyebrows angrily tilted downwards. He was ridiculously skinny, but he was tall, and Jason had to resist every street kid instinct inside of him that was screeching at him to _run away!_

(Jason had been beaten up far too many times too not know the warning signs of angry men.)

Instead, he gritted his teeth and looked the guy in the eye. This wasn't the streets. This was a _gala._ The guy couldn't throw a punch at him even if he wanted to. Lemonwuss had no power over him.

Except-

"You should be _ashamed of yourself!_ Why, of all the greedy, terrible, miserable things to do, you choose to disgrace the man who took you in!"

 _Wait, what?_

Buttface chimed up, her high pitched voice grating on Jason's nerves in all the wrong ways.

"What did you expect, Harold? It's obvious that the street rat wasn't raised with any manners. His mother was probably a harlot-"

"My mom was an _angel,_ you utter fu-" _wait, no, Alfred didn't like it when he swore with that word- "_ fudgin' cunt!"

It was this moment that the situation got out of hand.

More people joined the group, sharks sensing the blood in the water and converging towards it. Suddenly, it wasn't Jason against four nimrods, it was Jason against _a sea_ of nimrods.

And Jason was _losing._

They just kept _coming._ More and more of them, with their too fake smiles and their too fake faces and their snide insults and side eye glances. They didn't _know_ him. They shouldn't get to _judge him_ and _make fun of him_ and decide who he was based on where he came from.

They shouldn't.

But they were.

And they _just kept doing it._

They were _everywhere,_ surrounding him, and everytime he turned against one another would pop up and add salt to the injury. Their voices were in his ears, in his head, whining and nagging and booming and _too loud._

They were _laughing_ at him, _cooing at him, mocking him._

After all, what could little Jason Todd know about anything? He was just a street rat. He was just a stupid street rat with an alcoholic overdosed mom and a deadbeat dad with no schooling past the third grade. He was just a _thief,_ and a _coward, and worthless, and a waste of space who should just off himself and save everyone the trouble-_

He was just _Jason._

And Jason wasn't very much at all.

His fists were clenched tight into fists by his sides even as his teeth grinded together. He could feel the wetness in the corner of his eyes- _don't cry, don't cry, if you cry they_ _win_ _-_ even as he shouted himself hoarse - _they don't know anything, they don't, they don't-_

The colours of the dresses and suits and ties and fancy too expensive decorations were too bright, blurring together in a kaleidoscope of hues. The sound was everywhere, too loud and intense, and his ears were ringing so loud that Jason thought he was going to _explode._ He was _shaking, shaking, shaking,_ and he wasn't even sure why. He was just- it was just-

 _Too much, too much, too much- he needed to fight, he needed to get out, he needed to get away- TOO MUCH-_

And suddenly all the voices stopped, and all Jason could see was blue.

He blinked.

Dark navy blue.

( _The whale, his mind thought, distant and far away. Here is the blue of the great blue whale, come to scare the sharks to different waters.)_

He blinked again.

It was the dark navy blue of Bruce's suit, and hidden in its shadow Jason was out of sight, out of mind. Nobody could touch him, or reach him, or fight or yell. It was just him.

He was safe.

He hissed a breath between his teeth, then another.

Closed his eyes and pressed his fingers against the edges, pressing tight against the wetness that still lingered.

 _He's fine, he's fine, he's fine._

Bruce was talking, and Jason couldn't quite make out the words yet for the ringing in his ears. Everything was a bit distant, and Jason sort of wanted to find a hidey hole to disappear into for a few hours until the whole world came back a bit more manageable, till his body stopped being too much for his head to handle.

He brought his hands down and clenched his fingers, released. Took another breath.

 _He's fine, he's fine, he's fine._

Focused.

Bruce was talking, and Jason needed to know what he was saying.

( _You can trust him,_ part of his mind whispered, _Whales aren't out for guppies- even guppies with teeth- they're just out for those meant to hurt.)_

(Jason ignored it.)

 _Breathe._

Jason breathed.

 _He's fine, he's fine, he's fine._

The ringing in his ears wavered and puttered out, like the whine of an old radio being tampered with. Bruce's words filtered in distant at first, and then louder. The tone registered before the meaning, sounding cordial and polite and utterly in control, and for a few moments Jason felt his heart drop to his stomach.

 _Bruce was on their side._

Then Jason realized what the man was actually _saying._

"-frankly ashamed of my fellow peers for conducting themselves in such a manner against an eleven year old boy. I hope you all go home tonight and think long and hard about what you were saying, and how to possibly rectify your actions in the future…"

He droned on, except everyone was hanging off his every word. He managed to hit all the right points, sounding polite and even encouraging, praising certain traits and highlighting others in such a manner that everyone was thoroughly scolded and yet not at all offended about it.

Jason listened with a kind of quiet astoundment, making it his personal goal to achieve such a level of eloquent speech. He wouldn't waste it on socialites, but it would still be _cool._

And then-

"Let's go home, Jason."

The nerves were back.

Quietly, in his head, Jason swore up a storm. Outside, he silently followed Bruce, shoving his hands as deep as they could go inside the pockets of his jacket, head down and eyes tracing the heels of Bruce's shoes.

He could feel the stares on his back, the quiet murmured whispers in his ears, and it was making his skin crawl.

They got into the car, and everything was quiet.

 _He's fine, he's fine, he's fine, finefinefinefinefine-_

And then-

"Pompous turd waffles?"

Jason's head shot upwards, eyes wide as they landed on Bruce's own.

"Yeah- well, Alfred doesn't like it when I swear. I had to get creative."

The older man nodded, face contemplative. Jason tilted his head, because he could swear that Bruce's blue orbs were crinkling in what almost looked like-

"Nice. Remind me later, and I'll teach you some better ones."

 _Amusement._

Jason cracked a grin, nerves washing away.

"I'd like to see you try, old man."

Bruce laughed a bit, a real laugh, the one that sounded more like a gust of air leaving the sails of a ship than a chuckle.

 _He's fine. He's fine. He's fine._

A few minutes later, Jason sloppily took off his suit jacket, bundling it up and tucking it between his head and the window. Alfred would probably yell at him- or as close as the elderly man got to yelling, really- but that was fine, he could deal.

Except, Bruce had an arm around his shoulders suddenly, tugging him towards him until he was cushioned by the older man's chest. Jason tensed, freezing, not knowing what to do.

He should pull away. He _should._ He had a reputation to maintain.

But….

But-

But Bruce was a whole lot more comfortable than some window.

 _He's fine._

So Jason, slowly, cautiously, relaxed into the grip. Bruce let out a pleased sounding hum, and Jason hid his smirk into the lapel of the man's jacket.

(It wasn't like anyone could see him, anyways.)

 _I can get used to this,_ he thought.

He closed his eyes.

 _He's fine. He's good._

 _He's good._

He dreamed of the sea, of whales and guppies and sails on an ocean's breeze.

There wasn't a shark in sight.

 **...**

 **Hope you enjoyed!**


	4. Reflections and Windows

**These are all lined up and ready to go!**

 **I LOVE TIM SO MUCH!**

 **He's really hard to write though, but I hope you love him too!**

 **Also, I didn't edit this as much as I usually do? I edit all my own work, but I'm tired so I decided not to today. I'll probably come back to it at some point, but for now there might be some errors. Feel free to point them out if you see any, and thanks in advance for the help!**

 **WARNING: There is some reference to child abandonment. If this'll trigger you, please avoid reading. YOUR HEALTH AND HAPPINESS ARE MORE IMPORTANT AND I LOVE YOU!**

 **In which Tim is nine, attending his hundredth gala, still desperately trying to get his parents' approval and affection, Bruce is getting better at this whole kid thing, and there is a broken vase.**

 **...**

Tim sat very still and very straight.

He was also very, very silent.

He was being good.

He was good.

If he was good, Mother couldn't complain and Father couldn't give his disappointed sigh, and then maybe- maybe- they could take him on their next trip. If he was good, there wouldn't be any leaving behind, or loneliness, or big empty houses with nothing to do.

He just had to be good. It was just one gala, just one simple, measly gala, something he had done a thousand times before, and then he'd be home free.

Tim breathed in for four seconds, held it for seven, and released it for eight. Then he did it again.

And again.

Dr. Andrew Weil originally invented the breathing technique for helping people get to sleep, but Tim figured he could use it for calming down a bit as well. No one would have to know, and if someone noticed, well- Tim could play dumb. Or something.

No one needed to know.

He could say that he was just playing with his breath and wasn't trying to imitate some breathing pattern he found on the internet after cracking the password for the family laptop in the middle of the night because he wasn't sleeping well.

(Because he had a nightmare, although no one needed to know that either.)

It wasn't lying. It just wasn't… telling the whole truth.

Yeah.

…..yeah.

The limo stopped, and Tim took one last slight breath. Mother finally looked up from her phone, glancing once at Tim and then at her husband before putting it away into her bag. In milliseconds, a massive smile plastered on her face.

"Smile, Timothy."

Tim didn't really feel like smiling. He had stayed up late last night waiting for his parents to come home, and he was tired.

But that didn't really matter.

Tim smiled.

( Just this one gala, get through this one gala. You don't want to be left behind again, do you?)

Tim could be good. Tim would be good.

They got out of the car.

The camera flashes were bright and sudden as they exited the vehicle, flashing everywhere and to such extremes that Tim sort of wanted to hold his dad's hand. Not that he needed to, of course. Holding hands was for kids of less proper upbringing and mature status.

At least, that was what Mother said.

( Tim hasn't held anyone's hand since he was four years old.)

They entered the building, and Tim blinked the afterimage of the camera flashes away. He made sure to keep his back straight and his steps long enough to not slow his parents down, walking just behind them and keeping quiet with a general pleasing expression on his face all the while.

( Out of sight, out of mind. The way any good little boy should be.)

When someone did talk to him, he was very polite. He said his please's and thank you's, his How do you do?'s and general small talk. He even managed to greet each person by name with only three mistakes in total, a new record.

He was to memorize the guest list the night before, and he was to be able to match each name to a face. Mother said that it gave the family a better public image, that it made people feel important, so Tim had to do it. It was difficult, considering the three hundred members who had accepted the invitation, but Tim did it. He always did.

Are you proud of me yet? Am I enough yet?

I did what you asked. I did my very best.

(Why is that never enough for you?)

His parents sipped wine as red as his mother's lipstick. The hours passed, one after another after another, and Tim wished he had a watch. He wished he could get a drink. He wished the gala was over.

It wasn't. And there was no use in complaining: it usually just made his parents stay longer. Tim didn't want that.

So he stayed quiet.

A politician- Tim's mind raced through hundred of faces, settling on the image of the lady in front of him. Her name was Amanda. Amanda Walker? No... Amanda Waller- crouched down and shook his hand, greeting him. Tim smiled his best smile, greeted her back, and his voice caught in the back of his throat.

He turned to the side and coughed into the elbow of his suit, apologizing profusely and making it the rest of the way through the conversation without clearing his throat once, even though his body screamed at him to do it.

As soon as the lady wandered off, Tim caught the disapproving glare Mother sent his way. He smiled weakly.

She didn't smile back.

(Tim wasn't really expecting it. All previous data indicated that it wouldn't be happening any time soon, either.)

I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

I'll do better. I'll be better. Please- I'm sorry-

It was at this moment Bruce Wayne himself appeared before them, bright and loud and everywhere. Tim wasn't sure what to do with the man. Not now, not ever. He was always so much. And he was different, as if layers existed under layers.

Like he wasn't real, but not in the fake way so many people conducted their manner at galas and public affairs, all trying to get as much attention and limelight as humanly possible, all trying to absorb the most amount of fame and god like status that they could.

It was as if Bruce Wayne was trying to reflect that shine, to make everyone blind enough with that light that they don't even realize it's a mirror and not something coming through the window inside of him.

Tim liked to study him, sometimes, liked to see the little differences. Bruce always seemed to know where everything is in a building before he entered it, even if it was his very first time there. Bruce always had a glass of alcohol on hand, but he very rarely drank any himself, even on the nights that he seemed to go home drunk.

Bruce's eyes were intelligent. They were smart and clear and bright. They caught onto the little things of a scene, spotted the little details that others might miss.

( His eyes are like mine, Tim thinks, but he never says it.)

But perhaps the biggest thing that points to more is the simple, simple fact that Bruce adopted.

Dick Grayson. He adopted Dick Grayson.

Tim had watched videos. He knew who Dick Grayson was, who he turned out to be. Had seen the classic rags to riches stories come to life one article and blip of information at a time.

(Tim had been there, that night, the night of the fall. He had been young, very young, but the images play through his mind even now as a half dreamed reality. He remembered Grayson hugging him before the show, laughing and spinning him around, remembered the lights, the music, the colours.)

(Remembered the fall, the bodies cracking against the ground, the blood splattering everywhere, people yelling and yelling and yelling)

(Remembered Grayson screaming.)

(It's not something you forget.)

When Bruce was with Dick, his whole demeanor changed. He was softer and brighter and kinder, caring in ways Tim used to be sure only existed on T.V.

Tim was still pretty sure it only existed on T.V. There was no way that that sort of relationship actually existed, it had to be pretend, had to be an act.

Had to be. All the information Tim has gathered over years and years of galas and his own experiences indicated that such openly caring relationships were a thing of myth.

And yet…

When Dick and Bruce interacted with each other, it always seemed like the realist thing in the room to Tim.

(But maybe that was just Tim. His Mother did say his mind went to far away sometimes.)

All this and more filtered through Tim's brain before his hand was fully extended to shake Wayne's own.

"Good evening, Mr. Wayne," here, Tim swallowed, trying to get some liquid into his dry throat, "How do you do? Thank you for inviting us."

The older man laughed, loud and bright, and shook the proffered hand with enthusiasm, making Tim crack a smile a little more real than fake.

He caught his mother's eagle eye.

His smile slipped back into simply being polite.

"Evening, Tim!" no one calls Tim, well, Tim except for Mr. Wayne, "it great to see ya, kiddo. I'm pretty fantastic right about now, but you know what'll make me even more fantastic?"

The man leaned closer, wiggling his eyebrows

Tim smiled a little more real again at the sheer ridiculousness of it, tried to hide it, and failed. Quietly, he asked, "What, Mr. Wayne?"

Bruce grinned, all white teeth and crinkly corner eyes.

" Ice cream."

Ice cream?

Tim wasn't sure as to what to do. He glanced upwards at his Mother, but she simply raised an eyebrow at him before turning back to the man she was talking with- Harold Franks, his mind supplied him- and continued their conversation.

He was on his own.

(Tim didn't doubt she was listening though. Mother was always listening, preying on weakness like a lioness preys on an impala.)

He tried for another smile.

"I hope you enjoy your ice cream then, Mr. Wayne."

He thought that would be the end of it.

It wasn't the end of it.

"Oh no, kiddo, I need you for my ice cream heist! Everyone knows having a child conspirator increases ice cream extraction operations by at least seventy percent!"

It took approximately five seconds of panicking for Tim to realize that the man was joking, that not everyone knew of such a factor and that, indeed, said factor probably wasn't even based in statistics.

"Oh- heh heh-" he was taking too long to respond, way too long, Mother was going to be so mad, " I'm- I'm sure Richard will happily help you, Mr. Wayne."

There, easy solution.

Except-

"No, I'm afraid that this grave mission falls upon our soldiers alone, Tim. Dick's home with the flu, so I'm going to have to depend on you."

Tim almost licked his lips, a nervous habit that he sometimes did when he was thinking especially hard, but stopped himself at the last moment. Last time he had done it at a gala, Mother had scolded him for a full fifteen minutes about how certain body movements expressed weakness, about how as a Drake Heir, he was supposed to be better than that.

Tim got better.

I did what you asked. I'm doing my very best.

(Are you proud of me yet? Am I enough yet? )

He swallowed again, too dry throat protesting.

"I'd, uh," Stuttering, bad! "I'd be happy to be a of service, sir. As long as my Mother says it's okay…?"

Internally, Tim winced at all the hesitation his sentence portained. He should be better. Externally, he only turned to Mother with as schooled as an expression as he could manage.

Mrs. Drake was smiling, but there was something sharp in her eyes. Tim felt his heart sink: he had disappointed her.

(Why am I never enough for you?)

"Of course, darling. Hop along with Brucie and come find us when you're done."

Tim looked round at the hundreds of guests towering above him like a forest of fully grown trees, and he wanted to ask How?

But he didn't.

Bruce proffered a hand to hold, and Tim couldn't help but stare at it for several seconds before he grabbed at it, feeling weird and self conscious and strange.

( It's been a long time since Tim was four years old. It's been a long time since he's held anyone's hand.)

He wanted to stay with Mother. He wanted to stay with his parents and not have to go with this strange man that Tim didn't understand- And so very often he understands people far too well, so why not him?- to where he couldn't control the situation.

He didn't want the change the hand offered to him.

But Tim was going to be good, worthy of the Drake name. He was.

He took the hand.

Bruce weaved his way through the crowds, slow and steady and parting the masses of people like Moses parted the sea. He walked besides Tim, pace languid enough for even the young boy to keep up with without hurrying his steps. And as they drifted away from the guests and partygoers, his smile became less and less wide and more and more real, like his father's sometimes did after they watched a football game together.

Tim didn't speak- Out of sight out of mind- but he watched their steps align again and again, and wondered why Bruce had not let go.

Finally, they entered the kitchen, and Bruce gestured to the smooth marble island set up in the center of it all. The room must not have been the main area, because there weren't any servers making their ways through the room, just Tim and Bruce and a lot of awkward atmosphere.

Tim, making sure Bruce wasn't looking, quickly licked his chapped lips.

"So, kiddo, what sort of ice cream do you want? It seems we have chocolate, vanilla, cookies and cream, and mint chocolate chip. Have any favourites?"

He didn't bite his lip, but it was a close thing. He wanted the mint chocolate chip, but- but that wouldn't be what his Mother would want him to say. That wouldn't be polite.

So, instead-

"I'll have whatever you're having, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce stopped. Stared.

Tim stared back, every muscle frozen.

"How about some Mint Chocolate Chip, then, yeah?"

Slowly, slowly, Tim smiled.

"That sounds perfect, Sir."

They had ice cream.

It was good.

The conversation was better.

Tim hadn't had so much undivided attention from a single person since his seventh birthday party, and he hadn't had so much undivided attention from a single person that he actually enjoyed since… ever.

Bruce was smart. He knew so much about everything, and he brought up so many interesting points of discussion, sometimes even bringing up things that Tim knew nothing about, and he didn't care if Tim asked questions or shared what he did know and-

And-

And it was really, really nice.

The man even brought them both a cup of water to sip while they talked, and Tim's polite Thank you was far more relieved than he meant it to be.

(But, for once, Tim didn't think anyone would mind.)

Time slipped by until, at last, Mr. Wayne had to 'regretfully inform him' that it was time to find his parents. Tim didn't want the conversation to end, didn't want to stop, but he didn't complain, simply nodded and slipped off the stool, bringing his dishes to the sink and placing them there.

Mr. Wayne was probably getting bored of him anyways.

(Everyone always did, eventually.)

(And then they left him alone.)

"I can help you find your parents, if you want, Tim."

That would be nice. Bruce was tall enough that he could actually see over the many heads of the crowd, and that meant he had a far greater probability of spotting his Mother and Father, but-

But-

But Tim had already taken up so much of his time. It would be rude at this point to make him stay with him even longer.

Besides, Tim knew how to take care of himself.

( His parents had made sure of that.)

"I'll be fine, Mr. Wayne. Thank you for your hospitality."

And with one last handshake and a polite nod, Tim slipped away into the crowd, weaving through the people with a practiced ease that only comes with evenings upon evenings upon evenings of galas.

Tim started his search.

It went about as well as one might expect.

Everyone was just so tall , towering above him and blocking his line of sight. He almost wished that he had accepted Bruce's offer of help, if only because Mother's disappointed look and scolding would be better than being left behind when his parents went home at the end of the night.

(Again: it wasn't the first time they had left him behind.)

Tim sighed.

This was fine, he could work with this. Perhaps if he just maneuvered to the front door, he could wait for his parents there and join them as they were leaving?

It was a better plan than haphazardly weaving his way through the crowds, at least.

He turned to head in the correct direction, only to stumble directly into one of the other guests. Flustered, he took a step back, only to bonk into the leg of another man.

He tripped, took a step to the side with apologies on his lips, feeling his shoe slip on the trail of a lady's fancy dress before he was floundering around and falling backwards, smashing into one of the pedestals holding one of the many art exhibits of the evening, his head knocking smartly on the cold marble floor.

There was intense pain for several seconds, and Tim hissed and curled into himself, placing his forehead on his knees and trying to stop the too fast beating of his heart. Everything felt a little distant at first, but then the pain slowly started fading until he could focus once more.

He looked up, put his hand down onto the ground to help himself up, and froze upon feeling of glass.

Slowly, slowly, he looked behind him.

Oh no, oh no, oh no-

A vase.

He had completely shattered one of the ornate vases that had been displayed all over the ballroom.

Completely shattered one of the very, very expensive ornate vases.

His breath hitched, standing on wobbly legs and hands coming to wring themselves. He was shaking, because he had said he would be good, and yet- and yet-

And he had done everything wrong.

Mother was going to be so upset and Father so disappointed and they were going to leave him again and he was going to be alone again and even Mr. Wayne was going to hate him so much-

It was then that Tim realized that no one was bothering him and scolding him. That he was just standing up by himself unbothered, even after breaking the vase. That someone was talking loudly and jokingly, that Tim should probably be paying attention.

He blinked, rubbed tenderly at the back of his head. Turned around.

He was met with the sight of Bruce Wayne talking to the rest of the guest, including Tim's parents. The man was loud, smiling brightly and looking sheepish, and it took the boy several seconds to realize what he was saying.

"-can't believe I knocked over my own vase- eh folks? I suppose that's what happens with one too many drinks!"

Tim blinked again.

But- he wasn't- Tim was the one who- what?

What!?

It hurt to think. His brain felt slow, his head was pounding. His thoughts were sluggish and loose, not quite grasping onto the spiderweb trail of connections that they usually do. He knew he had banged his head. Maybe this was a concussion?

Concussion Symptoms: Loss of consciousness after any trauma to the head, confusion, headache, nausea, blurred vision, short term memory loss, perseverating-

He waved the thought away, blinked, tried to focus.

He felt dizzy.

He turned back around, glanced at Bruce, who was still talking about being clumsy. He glanced down at the shattered glass, realized he had a few small cuts on his hands.

How to deal with Glass cuts: Stop the bleeding by applying direct pressure on the area **.** Clean the area with warm water and gentle soap. Apply an antibiotic ointment to reduce chance of infection. Put a sterile bandage on the area. In some people, antibiotic ointments may cause a rash. If this happens, stop using the ointment...

Tim blinked. He had zoned out again.

Bruce was waving people away, insisting that everything was fine.

Bruce had been… covering for him?

Why would he do that?

What did he want?

Tim felt shaky and jittery, not wholly there. He felt slow, his thoughts trickling along and easily diverted from the problem at hand.

He wondered if this is what his classmates felt like. No wonder they found school so hard.

And then suddenly Bruce was in front of him.

Tim took a step back, slightly off balance, but the man reached out and grabbed his arm, keeping him steady.

Tim didn't know what to do. Somewhere, he realized that his parents were watching, that he should be worried about that, but all he could focus on was Bruce. Bruce, who was right there, close and safe and covering for him. Bruce, who looked worried. Bruce, who had taken him to get ice cream and water and was smart and had good conversations.

Bruce, who was sort of looking at him like he looked at Richard.

Oh.

"I'm really sorry for tripping you up, Tim. Are you hurt?"

Tim opened his mouth, closed it.

Opened it again, because yes, he was hurt. There were cuts on his hands and his head was aching a bit like how he imagined Zeus' head hurt when Athena was trapped inside it, pounding and pounding and pounding away until she could be released into the world.

He caught Mother's gaze. Mother looked murderous.

He closed it again.

Blinked.

People were waiting for him to talk. They were waiting for him and he was taking too long to respond, but his thoughts were like waves on the sand, he couldn't make them stay, they just kept wavering in and out, in and out, in and out of focus, and his head hurt.

Finally, he heaved a breath.

"I- I'm fine, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce Wayne didn't look like he believed him. Tim wouldn't have believed himself either.

He resisted the urge to apologize. Bruce had pretended to knock over the vase for him for reasons that Tim didn't quite understand yet. Bruce wasn't angry at him, only concerned. Bruce had given him ice cream and good conversation and a small little bit of attention that Tim desperately craved every day, even if he tried to pretend he didn't.

Bruce had helped him, and Tim was lying to him.

His Mother's eyes narrowed.

"I-" said Tim. His throat felt too dry again, he could feel the press of what felt like tears in his eyes- don't cry don't cry don't cry you're not allowed to cry, if you cry Mother will be even more angry- and Bruce was looking at him like he could see all of Tim's windows past all the mirrors.

"Mr. Wayne! I'm afraid that Timothy might need a bit of a early bedtime after all the excitement! Thank you so much for inviting us. C'mon, Timothy."

Tim hesitated. He didn't want to go. He wanted to stay with Bruce.

But there wasn't any choice. His parents were already so angry and Tim had already screwed up so much. Bedtime meant scolding, he was sure, and one couldn't just skip it.

So he said quietly, "Bye, Mr. Wayne."

Turned to go.

Stopped.

If anyone asked later, he would blame the concussion. In fact, it was very probable that the concussion played a very vital part of lowering his inhibitions, so it wouldn't even be a lie.

He turned back around, gave Bruce Wayne the quickest, fastest hug he could, the smallest whispered, "Thank you," breathed against that man's neck.

Then he turned and all but ran to his parents, looking at the ground and refusing to look anywhere else, especially not at his parents.

They walked out of the gala, and the scolding lasted for over an hour when they got home, concluding the lecture by telling him his behavior meant not being allowed to come on the next trip, or the one after that.

Tim listened and accepted. He would do better next time.

(I'm trying, I'm trying- Please-)

(It could have been so much worse. His parents didn't know about the vase, if they did, Tim as sort of scared about what they would have done.)

Later, when his parents went to bed, Tim would creep down the stairs and wash his cuts and put on ointment and place bandages. He'd hesitate, because according to some of the kids at school people were supposed to kiss these things better- although he hadn't found any scientific evidence of this in his research- and then hastily pressed his lips once against all the bandaids just in case there was some merit to it.

He would find the stepstool he kept in the closet and use it to reach the freezer and get some ice packs for the swelling knot at the back of his head.

He would clamber up back to bed and tuck himself in, would lie and stare at his blank ceiling, and when he finally he fell asleep he dreamed of a hallway or mirrors and a thousand of his own reflections, of stumbling through one chamber after another, trying to find a way out.

He would dream of hearing his name, of seeing a window that had no reflections of himself, just Bruce.

Bruce would be gesturing for him, the window thrown wide, and Tim would go through that window, and everything would seem okay.

He would be enough.

That would be enough.

 **...**

 **I got sort of Hamilton towards the end, but shhhhh-**


	5. Blink The Ghosts Out

**It's been a while since I've updated this! :)**

 ******WARNINGS******

 **THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS ATTEMPTED SEXUAL ASSAULT AND NONCONSENSUAL DRUG USE/KISSING. IT ALSO MENTIONS A CHARACTER THAT HAS DIED BEFORE AND INCLUDES MENTAL MANIPULATION. IF THIS BOTHERS YOU, PLEASE BE CAREFUL!**

 **...**

Tim tapped a small rhythm on his thighs, but was otherwise the picture perfect image of a young socialite. It had been a long night- it had been a long _week-_ full to the brim with escaped convicts after the most recent Arkham breakout. Just a few hours ago, Tim had been facing off Poison Ivy and Scarecrow, rescuing hostages and administering antidotes before rushing home to shower and change.

And maybe Tim was running off of the fumes of too much coffee and too little sleep, but he could do this. He could make nice with fancy business heads who saw a sixteen-year-old one way ticket to Bruce's checkbook and older socialites who liked to coo at him as if he was no more than five.

This was easy. Laughably easy. This was stuff Tim could do in his sleep.

( _He remembers reading name after name after name, until all the letters blurred together and his head ached, remembers his mother's disapproving glance whenever he made a mistake, remembers thinking I'm sorry, I'm sorry I'm trying-_ )

It was one of the many Wayne Charity Galas, and due to social regulations and the overarching goal of keeping the bat clan as far a part from the Wayne family in the public eye, someone had to be there to run it.

So Dick, Damian, and Stephanie had gone out on patrol with Barbra watching over them. Cass was in Hong Kong still, but Tim knew she was planning on returning for a visit soon.

Which left Bruce and Tim to deal with the gala. Stephanie was hanging around here, too, he knew. He had no idea where, had lost her somewhere about an hour in.

But that was alright: Tim would find her. Eventually.

Or, she would find him, when she was ready, and they would melt away to the edges of the party and watch the rest of the night play out before them, seemingly no more present than ballroom spectres waching one last final dance before they fade into ash, before they fade into nothing.

For now, he made the rounds, shook hands with politicians and business owners, accepted well wishers congratulations, and avoided all those who were trying to prey on 'easy bait' and strike up ridiculous deals to get at Bruce.

Easy bait. Tim would show them easy bait.

He was tired, and his ribs ached from where Killer Croc had gotten a hit in, and his head had been pounding for the last two hours something fierce. Tim brushed it off as caffeine withdrawals, and then brushed off the perspiration on his forehead as an effect from all the bodies crammed into the room.

Even so, putting up an amiable front was no big thing. He'd deal. He'd get through this and then he'd sleep and everything was going to be just _fine._

Plastering a smile on his face was as natural as breathing, years of training from socialite parents and ridiculous parties just like this one, even if the grins never stopped feeling fake and plastic.

A middle aged man- desperately trying to hide grey hairs through a bad dye job- was looking back at him, his own lips pulled into an almost languid smirk, teeth too white and straight to ever be breath smelled faintly of alcohol, even though his current drink was simply a sparkling apple juice, and his dark navy suit looked as if it was made for someone a few sizes smaller around the middle- most likely a couple of years old and no longer fitting due to the passage of time and its effects on the human body.

Tim took all this in within a blink of an eye, sometime after when the man had first approached and before their hands clasped in a firm handshake. A quick rifle through his memory brought up a name to match the face: Connor Jones, a businessman from a rich family whose company was doing poorly and whose relationships were doing even worse. Based on the poor state of the guy's clothing and his desperate attempts to look younger, Tim felt quite confident in presuming the man was on his last legs, desperately trying to get a deal with Wayne Tech to save him from bankruptcy, or at least trying to find a hot rich date to tide him over.

"Timmy!," _aaaand now he was leaning_ way _too much into Tim's personal space,_ "it's been an age since I've last seen you, my boy. You've grown so much! Tell me, how are you?"

The teen took a step back, giving himself room to breathe and letting loose a strained fake smile. The fact that the man had given him an appreciative one over had not escaped Tim's notice, even with all the other pains distracting him, and it made his nerves stand on end.

"Fine, Mr. Jones, how are you?"

The guy laughed, the sound too loud and almost grating against Tim's eardrums.

 _He wished his headache would go away. He wished it wasn't so hot in here. He wished that he could lie down and sleep for a million years._

"Doing rather well myself, Timothy. But, please, call me Connor- Mr. Jones makes me feel old."

 _You are old,_ Tim wanted to say. But he didn't.

 _(Tim,_ at least, had excellent restraint like that, even if none of his siblings did.)

Somehow, in the point five seconds he had been distracted, the man had managed to step too close again, close enough that Tim's face was level with his chest, that he could smell the guy's cologne and how it completely failed to cover the stench of the guy's sweat.

Despite his best efforts, Tim couldn't help but wrinkle his nose against the offensive smell: there were some things even restraint couldn't hold up against.

"Now, Timmy, I have a proposition and I was wondering if you would be willing to hear me out. Would you like a drink?

And then the guy's _hand_ was on Tim's _waist_ and that was a big _no no_ because, yeah, okay, it's one thing for physical contact with Dick and his friends, people he was used to, but quite another for a basic stranger to do it.

(Tim had twelve years under his belt growing up with nothing more than the occasional shoulder pat. It had led to him having his own little personal air bubble of _okay zone_ and the minute someone uninvited crossed it he was tensing up all over and taking the quickest steps to make the other _back off._ And it was times like those where he wished he was nothing more than a ghost, that no one could touch him, that no one could see him, that he could just breathe and breathe and breath and _disappear.)_

Sliding out of the grip was easy, even if it was executed a bit too quickly to pass as casual. But the man made Tim uncomfortable at a foundational level, and Tim wasn't one to ignore his gut feelings.

"Sorry, _Mr. Jones,_ I'm afraid that Bruce needs my attention. I'll be going now."

With that, Tim disappeared into the crowd, watching as the businessman blinked at his sudden lack of conversation partner and then scowled, and then walked off into the opposite direction, probably to get another drink.

Tim smirked, took just a moment to rub at his pounding head. Somehow, the man's stink had made the pain even _worse._

Then, because he had a responsibility to perform as one of the Wayne heirs, he began the whole process anew, shaking hands, flashing false smiles, and all and all dealing with the richest of the rich of Gotham City.

Eventually, he found himself by Mrs. Charline, one of the oldest members of the gala. If Tim remembered correctly, her husband had died just over two years ago...

"You must be so excited," the lady crooned at him, patting his cheek, "with all those hints ol' Brucie is dropping about giving you the company one day…"

Smiling suddenly felt a bit more natural. He and Bruce had had a long talk a few weeks ago while burning the midnight oil about Tim's future, and what he wanted to do with it. The little "hints" about the next heir for Wayne Enterprises started popping up in Bruce's interviews soon after.

He spent so long giving everything he got, and now it almost feels like he was sort of getting somewhere.

"The fact that Bruce thinks so highly of me is really an honour, Ms. Charline. I look forward to-"

He froze. Blinked. Somewhere just out of sight he could have _sworn_ that- that-

He breathed, closing his eyes just for a second. It had been a hard week, a _long_ week, and he was tired beyond belief. Every night he had been out till four in the morning- or later- helping out in containing the escapees and stopping baddies left and right. A lot was happening, right now, and he really needed some coffee, or even better some _sleep._

That was all. That was _all._ There was no way in hell that he had just seen-

Breathe, breathe, blink the ghosts out of your eyes and _get on with it, Drake, come on._

"Sonny, you alright?"

Tim tore his gaze away from the far off corner of the room, forcing himself to refocus on the woman in front of him.

"Fine, Ms. Charline. I just- I thought I saw someone I knew."

"Oh, who are they, then? Maybe I know'em and can help you spot'em in the crowd."

Tim laughs, but it sounds a little strained even to his own ears.

"No, no I don't think there could be anyway you would have known him, Ms. Charlene. Besides, he um- it couldn't have been him either way."

And it's true. There was no way that could have been Kon El, because the teen was six feet under, because Tim had attended the funeral, had held the teen's corpse and had felt the blood slick on his hands, had thought _No, no, no, no, no-_

It was almost funny, really, in a morbid way, that Kryptonians seemed so invincible, because the moment they die they become just as small and mortal as everyone else.

It was almost funny, in a way, how half a year could fly past and sometimes Tim still looked around and expected to find him, to see Conner's face or hear his laugh. It was almost funny, in a way, how sometimes Tim could just feel so _normal_ and then a second later he'll _remember_ and it's like someone punched him in the gut and driven away all the air.

It was almost funny, in a way, how Tim sometimes _missed_ him so much it hurt, kept him awake those precious few hours he's dedicated to sleep, kept him dazed and unfocused those many hours devoted to work, kept him curled up in the center of his bed in his messy room in his messy apartment not doing anything at all because _why should he?_ _Why should he get to do things when Kon El couldn't do anything at all, because he was dead._

It was almost funny, in a way, how half a year could pass and Tim could look up for a half a second in a room full of socialites and spot a tall strong back and wide set shoulders and a head of black hair, and just immediately think- _Kon._

Except, you know, how it's the exact opposite. How it was so _not_ funny it made Tim want to _puke._

 _Breathe, breathe. Focus. C'mon, Drake, you're seeing ghosts._

But then- _there_ \- again- tall frame and strong back, that shock of black hair. Who the hell _was_ that guy, and _why the hell did he look so much like Conner Kent?_

"Would you excuse me, Ms. Charline," he said, throat suddenly very dry, and then he stepped around her and rushed off into the crowd, fingers very finely trembling. Some small part of him that sounded just like his mother was positively _shrieking_ for how rude he was being, but he had to know, he had to know, _he had to know._

Moving fast made his ribs twinge painfully, made his head pound all the harder, but it didn't matter, it didn't matter because-

Because this was impossible. This was _impossible_ because Kon El was _dead,_ because Tim had held his dead body in his arms, there hadn't been a pulse, hadn't been a breath, only a cold sort of stillness and _so much blood-_

Tim was chasing a ghost. It was the only logical explanation. He was going to stumble upon the guy he was following and it's just gonna be some rich socialite kid trying to act out and be cool with some gelled up hair and Tim's gonna feel like an _idiot_ and that will be that.

Except-

How many times have heroes risen from the dead? How many times had Tim wished _c'mon, c'mon, just one more miracle, one more miracle, just bring hi k-_

He remembered that mission, remembered how it all went wrong, remembered peeling off his costume, how it wasn't the right colour of red with all the dried crusted blood, remembered gagging because of the smell, the way his face was too pale and the world too distant, the way Dick had found him and held him and held him and held him as Tim just _shook_ for reasons beyond anything he could grasp.

And in his head, a voice, listing his symptoms, listing the treatments, monotone and far away, like the sound of static, like the breath of a ghost.

 _Shock: a critical condition that is brought on by a sudden drop in blood flow through the body. The circulatory system fails to maintain adequate blood flow, sharply curtailing the delivery of oxygen and nutrients to vital organs. ..._

How much do you have to give before the world gives you a break? Because Tim felt like he had been giving up pieces of himself from the day of his birth, and now he was running on spare parts and jittery hardware, felt like he was playing that old guessing game he used to go through with his parents but with the very universe itself.

 _Am I enough yet? I did what you asked, did my very best._

 _I put up with everything you put me through._

 _(Why is that never enough?)_

He spotted the guy by the food table, and his breath caught in his throat.

It was _him._

 _Kon._

 _It's a ghost,_ a voice whispered in his head, _you're seeing things, you're going insane,_ but Tim ignored it because- because-

Because that was _Kon,_ right there, wearing a suit with his hair purposely stylized all crooked and that _stupid_ smile on his face and a glass of some sparkling apple juice in his grip and he was _there,_ _he's there he's here he's alive._

Tim very suddenly couldn't breathe.

 _One more miracle, one more miracle he had asked and life had given him one more miracle because he's right there, he's righ e-_

He needed to compartmentalize. He needed to breathe and get his shit in order right here right now, because otherwise Tim was going to start crying in the middle of a massive gala and he wasn't going to be able to stop.

" _Conner?'_

 _Cracking,_ his voice was cracking and sounding wet and dry and _broken,_ and Conner just turned around- the _ghost_ just turned around- and winked.

"Hey there, I see you-"

It was his voice. It was _Conner's voice,_ and despite himself Tim felt his eyes well up.

 _Shit shit shit- compartmentalize, compartmentalize, get it together, Drake, figure it out-_

"What are you doing here? How did you- How did- How- I don't _understand-_ "

"Whooaa, there. Slow down. Here- just- wait here and I'll get you a drink, okay?"

And Tim nodded, because okay, okay, he _was_ feeling a bit dizzy on top of his headache and the air was coming on a bit too fast- _jarring his ribs, ow-_ and _Kon_ did seem to know what the hell was going on while Tim had entirely no clue.

He closed his eyes, breathed deeply through his nose, held it, and let it all go.

He half expected for Kon to never come back, for it all to have been some coffee withdrawal and sleep deprivation induced hallucination, but no, no, there he was, balancing another flute of sparkling juice, the size of his hands making the glass seem absurdly small.

Tim frowned, because Kon El knew that he didn't really like the grape kind, but then again maybe that was a message inside of itself, or maybe with the all the chaos of coming back to life the Kryptonian forgot or maybe-

He didn't know. His head was pounding too hard to make sense of any of this, so he just took the drink and sipped at it, grimacing slightly at the flavour.

Tim didn't make a habit of drinking things he didn't like. Somehow, he thought that the flavour has gotten _worse_ since he was last forced to try some of the stuff.

But in the long run, it didn't matter, because that was Kon El, right there, in front of him, and his chest was moving up and down, up and down, and Tim had to resist the temptation to reach up and check for a pulse point.

It wasn't the time. He needed answers, needed to figure out the situation he was in, to learn how the hell Conner was walking and talking in front of him, and why the older boy was so freaking _calm_ about it.

 _I BURIED YOU,_ he wanted to scream, but he didn't.

Now was not the time to make a scene.

Or maybe it was? Sometimes, Tim knew, when he as panicking he reverted to the rules drilled into him when he was younger, those habits that were half attempted to be broken but were still struggling to be heard every moment, like some sort ghost possessing his body long after it had been exorcised. Kon El had returned from the _dead._ Did anyone know, besides him? Should he call the Kents? The Titans? Or is this supposed to be a secret?

His mind was working overtime, his face was blank, but at the smae time, at the same time-

He felt nauseous, felt jittery all over, felt too hot in this crowded room. He wishes that they were alone, that Tim could scream and shout and _rage_ and have no one look weird at him, and then maybe cry and hug Kon so tight that it _hurt._

Tim closed his eyes, breathed in deep, and pushed the pain and dizziness and tiredness and everything else _down down down._

 _Compartmentalize. Focus. Figure this out, and deal with all the emotions later._

"Alright, can you _please_ tell me what's going on now? How you- how you're here?"

His throat felt so dry, and his voice rasped and cracked at the edges, and Tim took another sip of the awful drink and pushed through it, pushed through it.

Kon was peering down at him, eyes furrowed in a concerned look, downing the rest of his drink.

"Are you sure you're feeling okay there, Timmy?"

Tim blinked, and his eyelids struggled to rise back up, just a bit.

 _Tired, tired, just so tired._

"Don't call me that," spilled out instinctively, and then he sighed and closed his eyes and gripped at the stem of his glass just a little harder, "and- Fine,"

It came out forced out through gritted teeth, but he meant it. He could be fine, he could, he just needed _answers_ first, and maybe to run a full scan on Kon El to be absolutely sure he was real and not a living, breathing ghost, or some figment of his imagination.

 _Please don't be an illusion, please don't- please-_

"Just- talk to me. What's going on?"

 _When did it get so hot in here?_

Kon El just watched him for several more moments, and then glanced at the crowded room around them. Tim wondered if the older teen was disoriented somehow, or still dealing with whatever side effects that came with- what? Rising from the dead?

Was he even dead in the first place?

( _He had to have been. Tim had held his dead body, had felt that too solid weight in his arms, so still and so inanimate and too far gone for any hero to save him-)_

Either way, something was off, and his mind felt like it was in overdrive trying to figure it out, running too hot for it to keep up with his servers. There were too many questions and not enough brain capacity to keep up, and every time Tim looked at Kon the pounding just got _worse._

Just when Tim was about to really start screaming, appearances be damned, Kon opened his mouth.

"Is there somewhere we can talk? Alone?"

Tim blinked. Right. _Right._ Conner couldn't very well talk about their alter egos in a room full of possible eavesdroppers.

Right.

Tim knew that. He swiped at his brow, getting rid of the sweat that had started to bead there. He was just tired and overheated, and his head had become the steady pounding of a beating highly painful drum.

"Y-yeah. Good point."

He looked down at his drink, the fizz bubbling its way to the top. He needed to get his game together: maybe the cold liquid would clear his head? At the very least it should help with his parched throat.

Decided, he put the glass to his lips and swallowed the rest of the golden liquid, grimacing at the taste. Then he placed the flute down on the table and grabbed at the blue of Kon's suit- _real, real, real, real and physical and_ here _, not a ghost, you're not crazy, he's really here-_ and started leading the other teen out of the ballroom and towards one of the spare guest bedrooms and- if you knew the trick- one of the secret entrances into the batcave.

(On the way out, he thought he caught sight of Bruce peering curiously at him from across the way, but dismissed it: Bruce would understand how important this was.)

Tim stumbled halfway down the hallway, forced to lean against the wall to catch his balance.

"I'm fine," he murmured instinctively, bangs hanging sweaty from where he was bent over and staring at the ground, trying to push down the nausea, to ignore the pounding in his head, "Just dizzy."

Kon reached a hand out to help anyways, and Tim had have the mind to swipe it away, but the minute he took another step his legs start giving out again and he's forced to aquience.

Besides, the temptation of being able to have a constant source of physical proof that the Kryptonian was well and truly there was too much to resist.

A hand slipped around his waist, and Tim pushed down the slight discomfort he felt because _It's Kon, it's Kon, c'mon, you idiot, it's been a while but that doesn't change the fact that it's_ Kon _and you can trust him._

By the time they reached the end of the hallway, Tim could hardly keep himself upright, much less function and move forwards by his own violation. The nausea and dizziness were also much worse, and his head was positively _killing him._ The Kryptonian was taking almost all of his weight, and Tim would feel embarrassed if not for how awful he felt, or for the fact that he was so relieved that the other was even there at all.

Also, something was very obviously, terribly wrong.

Tim blinked, blinked, blinked sweat out of his eyes, trying to just _think_ and categorize his symptoms and failing miserably because all his thoughts were slipping out of his grasp like water pooled in loosely cupped fingers, too fast to understand.

It was rather a surprise, then, when he opened his mouth and words actually slurred out of it.

"I think I've been drugged," he said, and blinked blearily at the pale cream wooden door in front of them, because _wait, that's not right, why aren't we going to the batcave,_ and then, also, _oh, drugged, that actually sounds quite feasible._

There was no time to think. Tim blinked again and suddenly time was warping oddly all around him and he was in one of the spare bedrooms- _head pounding, pounding, pounding-_ and Kon was locking the door behind them.

He was swaying, swaying, and the movement made his ribs hurt and there was sweat at the nape of his neck and for some reason Tim couldn't quite place alarm bells were ringing in the back of his mind.

"'Kon?"

His mental processors were malfunctioning, or something, because one moment the other teen was by the door and the next he was by his side, pressing him against the wall, supporting him, holding him up.

"Conner?"

 _Weak- weak._ His voice sounded so weak and he _hated_ it but at the same time things were become very blurry, now, and his control over his limbs seemed very fluid and difficult to manage because the other teen was very, very close and still holding him, still supporting him, and there was something he was supposed to be doing but he couldn't quite remember over the pain of his headache and the way every single silent alarm system Tim had was shrieking silly.

He felt disconnected. He felt like he was running on two percent battery and quickly shutting down. He felt like a ghost, as if he was outside of his own body and something else was controlling his limbs.

 _Something's not right about this._

Kon El was looming over him, pressing against him _too close too tight_ against the wall, smelling like bad cologne and sweat.

 _Wait, wait,_ he thought, everything slipping out of alignment and going topsy turvy, _that's not what he's supposed to smell like. He's supposed to smell like strawberries and storm clouds, Kryptonians don't even sweat, what- what-_

"Kon," and Tim didn't like how slurred his words were coming out, not at all, "Kon- back up- I- too close-"

But Conner wasn't backing up. In fact, he was leaning _closer,_ and there was something definitely not right about this, something very definitely _wrong,_ and all around his head danger signals were exploding like fireworks.

Tim wasn't one to ignore gut feelings.

Except- there was no coordination to his limbs, and when he pushed the other teen off him- _shouldn't be have been able to do that, he's a Kryptonian, super strength, shouldn't have been able to move him, shouldn't have been able to budge him an h-_ Conner was back in moments, slamming up against his chest- _ribs, ribs, shit that hurt his freaking ribs ow, ow, ow-_ pressing against him even _closer,_ pinning him to the wall.

And he didn't want this, didn't want this, this wasn't how this was supposed to go, his head was spinning and pounding and he had asked for a miracle, _one more miracle, please, please,_ not this, not _this,_ not being pressed against a wall with no air left to breath and no control and no coordination, no mental room to compartmentalize and no physical room to lash out and all words of protests and sounds of discontent ignored like they were nothing, like he was nothing, like he wasn't even there, like his opinion meant nothing more than that of a ghost's.

 _Compartmentalize,_ he thought, but he wasn't sure how. Was confused, because this was _Kon,_ this was someone he trusted, but this wasn't something Kon would _do,_ so what? What? Was he being mind controlled? Was he trying to pass on some secret message? If so, why not use a previously established code? Why all _this?_

 _Slipping, slipping, all his thoughts were slipping and Tim had no idea what to do, and he was left thinking,_ wait- wait-

Time became captured and distorted, skipping forwards moments every time he closed his eyes, dragging out and moving too fast all at once, and Tim couldn't even start to catch up.

 _Blink, blink-_

He was being pressed against too close and his ribs _burned_ with the pressure and his feet weren't quite on the ground anymore and all he could smell was sweat and stale cologne and _Kon doesn't smell like that._

He should get out of this. Should lash out with a leg and twist the hands pinning his till the wrists dislocate, should unlock the door, duck around the corner, disappear and regroup with people who were currently not acting _insane-_

 _Blink, blink-_

And suddenly the Kryptonian's mouth was on his and all he could think about was the fact that all he could taste was sparkling grape juice and _Kon El knew that Tim didn't like that kind._

 _Move,_ he thought. But everything was sluggish and disconnected, and his scrambling limbs couoldn't find purchase to lash out, not like this, not when it felt like they were moving through _lead._

 _Blink, blink-_

Warning bells in his head, all over, so loud, _too_ loud, and Tim hadn't even thought to listen to them, and now this- this- This Not-Conner who was Conner who's _not_ was kissing him and Tim sort of wanted to throw up, but couldn't, not really, because even though it was so very clearly happening he couldn't even focus enough to tune into his body and do _anything._

 _Blink, blink-_

Tim sort of wanted to close his eyes, wanted to block the whole wide world out. But he couldn't, he couldn't, all he could do was just sort of- be there. He felt so out of control. He felt so _trapped._ He felt like- He felt like-

He didn't even know. He didn't even know. Reality was slipping out and Tim was being left behind, thinking, _Wait- wait- w a i t-_

 _Blink, blink-_

This was not Kon El. This couldn't be Kon El. This was not-

Tim blinked, and for a moment the figure pressing against him warped into someone else entirely, older and fatter and uglier and _Mr. Jones_ and Tim wanted to throw up all over again, wanted to hit something, wanted to wash his mouth out with bleach, because the _smell, the smell, in his mouth, these greasy hands_ touching _him-_

But then he blinked again, and it was back to being Kon, and his slipping sliding thoughts tied themselves in knots and all Tim could do was scramble at the hands holding at his wrists, scramble for purchase, and he was pretty sure he could hear someone making muffled yells and he was pretty sure that it was _him-_

 _Blink, blink-_

Someone was pounding down the hallway. Tim could hear it, despite the distorted way his eardrums were picking up noise, catching onto some things too loud and ignoring other things entirely. Like his heartbeat. It was _so loud_ in his head and yet he could _feel_ the vibrations of Not-Conner's throat and there were no groans echoing in his ears, so- so-

( _Not-Conner kept flickering in and out of focus, like a broken hologram, like a spectre in a looking glass, and one moment he was Kon El and the next he was Mr. Jones and all Tim could do was try to keep up and think,_ Wait- wait- wait-)

 _Blink, blink-_

There was a leg being shoved between Tim's own, and some part of him was thinking _This is not happening,_ and everything else was a furious rant about how he just needed to get his limbs under control, just needed to compartmentalize, _come one, come one, useless, you're useless, come on_ , and then the door burst open and all the pressure on his chest just- disappeared.

Time was so topsy turvy, so far away, and one moment he was pinned and the next he was free and then the next Bruce was there, Bruce was there, kneeling in front of him from where Tim's buckling legs had given out on him and slipped to the ground.

" _Are you okay?"_ he was saying, and it all sounded so far away, like it was coming from underwater, like it was coming from another life, " _Are you okay?"_

And Tim nodded, nodded- shook his head. Nodded again. He thought he might be crying. He should probably be embarrassed. But all he could really do was shake and tremble and _shake,_ all over, suddenly very, very cold, and he had no control of his limbs and no control of his voice and no control over anything at all.

" _I thought- I thought- And- He- Kon- the smell- I-"_

He sort of just- leaned. Forwards. Sort of just collapsed. But one moment his back was against a too cold wall and the next Bruce was gathering him in his strong arms and his own shaking limbs were trembling, trembling, grasping at the material of the older man's suit jacket with a grip that had no strength.

Someone was murmuring something, tone attempting to be soothing, the vibrations filtering in and out, and all Tim could hear was ringing.

Kon was lying on the ground some feet away. Tim could see him from over Bruce's shoulder, the way he was curled in on himself, the way there was a quickly growing bruise on his temple. Kryptonians don't get bruises, not like that, but still all Tim could think was _oh gods, oh gods, he's dead, he's dead, I just got him back and now Kon's dead-_

Tim had managed to kill a ghost, and it made him shake all over.

He didn't want to face it, didn't have any control, and somehow his face was buried in the space between Bruce's shoulder and his neck and the elder was running a soothing hand up and down Tim's trembling back, and those were definitely tears.

This was embarrassing. This was beyond embarrassing. Tim was an embarrassment. Stand up, you _idiot._ Report. Symptoms: tell him you that you have had a headache the past three hours and felt overheated, tell him that you've been feeling dizzy and disoriented, that you've been drugged, that-

Tell him that that man over there looked like the spitting image of your dead friend, the one you held in your arms, the one who used to smell like strawberries and storm clouds, who laughed and fought and lived with so much vigour it seemed like it would never end until one day his life was cut off far too soon.

Tell him. Tell him. _You can kiss your booboos better in the shower later like a good boy, when no one can see you or hear you, when you don't have anyone left to disgrace, c'mon Drake, c'mon, idiot, c'mon, tell him how useless you were-_

 _Out of sight, out of mind, why are you always getting yourself in such trouble? Why can't you just follow simple instructions?_

Selective hearing. Bruce murmured, "I got you, I got you, you're going to be okay, Tim, you're going to be okay-" and Tim thought, _Wait- wait-_

And then everything caught up with him, all at once, and Tim was passing out before he could even remember how to breathe.

Time warped, slipped out of his hands like he was trying to hold onto a dream even after he woke up, and later, later, and Tim was lying down on a cot in the medical ward in the batcave, filtering in and out of consciousness, ears catching words at random before spitting them all back out again.

" _... mixed strain of Scarecrow's fear gas and Ivy's pollen… slow acting…"_

" _...sleep deprivation…"_

" _...keeps asking about Conner?"_

" _...influenced optical receptors…"_

" _...tests show signs of Rohypnol…"_

" _...busted his ribs again…"_

" _...should have kept a better eye, been faster…. "_

" _...knew something was wrong-"_

In and out, in and out, the whole wide world was drifting in and out, and Tim just let it. He didn't want to deal with reality anymore. At least, not for a while.

At some point, when he was caught between sleep and wakefulness, he caught sight of bright blue orbs and a shock of black hair, and he squinted his eyes open a little wider.

"...Kon?"

But no- no- the figure leaned in- worried and bright and living and alive and real- and it was just Dick, and Tim _hated_ how disappointed that made him feel.

Tim was blinking ghosts out of his eyes like teardrops: they were everywhere he looked.

Something empty and painful curling up angrily in his chest, Tim let himself slip back into unconsciousness to the feeling of someone pressing a kiss to his forehead.

The kids at his old elementary school had lied. It didn't make him feel any better.

Later, later, and Tim wondered if somehow that night he ceased to exist. It felt like he was wading through cotton balls, as if each step he took could leave no impact on the ground.

(It felt like he was a ghost. It felt like he wasn't even there at all.)

Tim trained and hacked and talked and ate and chatted and fought and it just-

It felt like he was going through the motions. It felt like-

Like-

He didn't even know. It didn't really matter.

But later, later, it was five in the morning and Tim had not slept for three days, to the point that he was unraveling at the seams, just a bit, and there were no more cases to work on and no more justifiable reasons to avoid sleeping and dreaming and the _nightmares and-_

And Bruce walked in, tired and lumbering and slow, and Tim- stood up. Fumbled. Excuses spilling from his lips and falling flat.

 _Out of sight, out of mind, simple instructions and yet you somehow always, always mess it up-_

(Bruce stared at him, and it made Tim feel tired. Made Tim feel small, nine years old and not quite sure how to hold someone's hand other than his own.)

Silence. Long, aching, echoing silence. Tim didn't know how to assuage the older man's worries. Didn't know how to assuage his own. Whenever people offered him drinks he found himself reaching for a drug testing kit, or pouring it down the drain.

He never knew how much coffee dregs on white porcelain could look like failure.

Tim didn't know how to say _He was my best friend and I trusted him and I know it wasn't really him but it felt like it- it felt real- and-_

Didn't know how to say _He was my best friend and I held his dead corpse and went through so much pain and then he was_ back _and for once on my sorry life I thought everything was going to turn out alright._

Didn't know how to say, _He was my best friend, he died, and now I wish that he would have stayed dead and I would have never seen him alive again, because everytime I think of him I think of_ that _and now I'm blinking ghosts out of my eyes every time I see a shock of black hair._

Didn't know how to say, _This is perfectly irrational- it wasn't him, wasn't Kon, was someone else entirely, Superboy never made it back- but it's perfectly real in my head and sometimes I try to find the words and it still feels like I'm pinned to that wall_ , _struggling to breathe, struggling to think, so out of control my body doesn't feel like my own anymore and it's terrifying, it's terrifying, help, help, help, helphelphelp-_

Tim didn't know how to say it. So none of it came out.

And then, finally, after a silence that dragged on too long-

"Here," and opened arms.

And Tim, haunted by the face of a young dead man brought back to life and feeling more and more like a spectre himself every passing day, kind of steps forward, kind of steps back.

For once, Bruce didn't let him walk away, reached out and held him, held him, held him so close and so tight it was almost like he was trying to ground him in reality with solely the strength in his arms.

There was the ghost of lips on his hairline, and Tim held onto the back of Bruce's shirt all the tighter and told himself firmly that the liquid leaking out of his eyes wasn't shameful, even as he very carefully let himself remember how it felt to hold onto someone else's hand for a while, to not just be independently pulling himself along.

They should probably talk. _Tim_ should probably talk.

But they didn't. Neither of them were very good at words. At emotions. At being scared.

They just held each other.

Sometimes, maybe, it was all you could really do.

Sometimes, maybe, it was enough.

 **...**

 **Thank you so, so so much to Golden Bearded Dragon, thanzintay.2000, and Dossypet, who reviewed!**

 **Also, many, many thank yous to my followers and favouriters! It means so much and I hope you guys all enjoy the update!**

 **Till next time,**

 **Mashpotatoe Queen**


	6. broken parts (make the sharpest swords)

**Hello! I am very tired.**

 *************WARNINGS*************

 **Mentions of blood/injuries and torture, but all in the past tense and very blink and you'll miss it.**

 **...**

Stephanie Brown always liked being the center of attention.

Maybe it was because as a child, there had never been enough attention to go around.

Or maybe it was because she liked playing with it, the way it glanced off her skin, the way she could make it change and shimmer with a quirk of her lips or a quip of the mouth. The way it was so malleable, how she could control it when everything else in her life up to this point had been beyond her grasp.

Maybe.

Her skin was made of marble. She chose what creation it would become, the way her mask could fit around her features and harden into stone armour around vulnerable scars.

Stephanie Brown always liked being the center of attention, unless she wasn't in the mood, and then she'll disappear to the corner of your eyes, a flash of gold in your peripheral vision, an echoing bark of laughter from no discernable place or time.

Some nights, she was standing in the spotlights, dazzling and blonde and spinning across the room at a dizzying pace. Some nights, she would grin too bright and too real in the face of politicians and socialites and display her arms and her legs and all her little scars and bruises, displaying her history of a life in poorer neighborhoods and 'uneducated' manners through the marks on her skin and the tilt of her smile, screaming to the world in a way Tim would never quite be able to replicate, would never quite be able to understand, screaming about how _This is me, this is me, and you can't change me, can't shame me, can't break me down-_

Tonight is not one of those nights. Tonight Stephanie was quiet, she talked, she chattered, she looked into the eyes of men four times her age with that unwavering gaze until they excused themselves or broke, but she would not be loud about it. People would remember her- _she's one of those figures who are hard to forget-_ but only in passing, that strong girl with little white lines traced into her skin and long blonde hair.

She first showed up at the side of Timothy Drake, no connections, no money to her name, no social status to speak of. She showed up with bandages on her knuckles and a second hand dress she had bought the night before, a clashing eggplant colour that made Tim laugh and trade with her small secret glances that made her feel like no other attention in the world would ever be necessary, not when she had this.

She showed up glaring and clashing and _loud,_ and when people looked down on her she stuck her chin up, her every feature made of stone, and nothing could penetrate her, break her, or push her down.

(Sometimes, late at night and all alone, when the bruises ache and the cuts sting and the silence makes her want to scream just to make something _real,_ she will think back to that feeling and try to plaster it onto her skin, to carve it into her bones.)

People have always looked down on her, if they ever bothered to look at her at all.

She showed up, and through the grit of her teeth and the strength of her grasping, scrambling fingers, she never quite left.

Stephanie Brown was carved out of marble. She was carved out of drunk fights echoing from a kitchen long ago in need of repair, out of a father never home and a mother swallowing pills instead of dealing with the world around her. She was carved from late night conversations on old creaking swing sets and secrets kept and secrets told, out of a costume made with her own two hands and a hand-me-down title that had her dressed in reds and greens and golds. She was carved from Cluemaster and manipulation and broken and rebuilt trust, from a lifetime of being shattered down to nothing but her own will to live, from _dying,_ from being brought back from places where no one should ever really go.

Stephanie Brown was carved out of marble. She was a masterpiece of broken parts. She was a lioness cornered in a cage, outnumbered ten to one, still fighting.

(Stephanie Brown told herself these things when her own thoughts got too loud for her own head to handle, when the world turned against her again and again and again, when everything inside of her was clashing and angry and sad and alone and afraid and _bright.)_

This particular gala was particularly awful. There was something about rich snobs that always rubbed her the wrong way, that made her hackles rise. She hated how impossible relaxing felt in Wayne Manor, with its towering columns and glaring chandeliers, the way that so much space felt crushing, weighing down on her with no room left to breathe.

She breathed anyways.

Perhaps she was just tired. Riddler escaped last night, had planted bombs all over Gotham and had led the whole Batclan on a wild dash across Gotham, defusing bombs and following riddles and dealing with a seemingly endless amount of thugs. Her ankle was throbbing at her from where she had sprained it on a miscalculated leap out of the way of bullet spray, but the pain relievers she had thrown back a few hours ago were finally kicking in.

A middle aged woman did a double take at her white suit, at the paint smatters on it, marking it with blues and greens and yellows and pinks and purples, a result of one too many late night study sessions of a college course that she kept missing the class of, kept playing catch up on because villains didn't just stop because of an eight AM class.

She had been frustrated. She had been tired. The suit was too blank and her mind was too full, and the paint was lying abandoned in a cupboard from that one time her mother thought she might take it up as a hobby, and throwing splatters against the too pure brightness in an alleyway in the middle of the night was somehow soothing.

(The red paint still sat dusty on the shelf: she saw enough of the color staining material dark in her night job, and wearing a suit that reminded her of blood didn't sound appealing in the slightest.)

Tim had asked her once, feet swinging over the edge of a building twenty stories up, back when his eyes were less tired and the weight on his shoulders weighed less heavy, when things were not so complicated and convoluted, why she went to the things if she hated them so much.

She had told him she came for the food. It was a lie, and he probably knew it, because at the time she came because he was there, and seeing him look at her like an equal and a competent meant more than any words could express.

Now, she was pretty sure she came so that every time Bruce saw her, she could flash him the middle finger.

And so that she could make Tim laugh, because god knows that the other teen needs it.

(Traffic cone colours and a legacy that was never meant to be hers, not really. She and Tim shared that, in a way, because Batman did not ask for him to be Robin, either. But the difference was that Tim eventually was embraced into the fold and Stephanie never quite managed.)

Finding the other boy was easy. Dragging him away from whatever politician or celebrity he was talking to at the time was harder, but when words failed she simple grabbed on to the back of his suit and yanked him in a new direction by force.

He scowled at her, raising and eyebrow. She shrugged.

"Dance with me."

He made a show of it, sighing before dramatically offering his hand to her, but she knew that he was probably relieved to be free of the false pleasantries and fake smiles. She _knew_ him, the way he worked, the way he thought, or at least as much as anyone could understand him.

Or maybe she knew some younger version of him. She didn't remember the bags under his eyes being this deep, didn't remember so many blank gazes, or the way sometimes that pretend smile wouldn't slip off his face even when he was directing it at her.

Either way, it was enough, it had to be enough, and they danced.

She didn't know how, but she went for it anyway, cursing when she stepped on his feet and whooping when he spun and dipped her, cheerfully doing the same back to him.

In the end, she didn't get any laughter from him, but his smile did become more real.

(Once upon a time, maybe, in another universe where Stephanie was not so weary of trust and so tired of secrets and Tim was not so battered and emotionally isolated, perhaps they could have worked it out, could have made themselves great.)

(She didn't know. Didn't rightly care. She fell in and out of love like tides upon a sandy shore, and even if she no longer felt for him in that way it never stopped them from holding each other up and keeping each other grounded, never stopped them from spinning around a ballroom like two ten years olds hiked up on sugar and adrenaline and imaginations full of happy endings where everything works itself out.)

Later, later, and Tim was called away to help figure out some coding and help deal with Penguin, and Stephanie charged through the crowds like a bull horn, distracting them from his sudden absence, loud and obnoxious and annoying.

(She caught sight of Bruce watching her from one of his many piles of eager women. She flashed him the finger, and was the only one to recognize the small nod that occurred immediately after to be one of recognition.)

The rich folks leer at her, look down at her, and Stephanie refused to back down, refused to feel small.

(Batman had looked down at her, once, had told her to go home. She had stuck her chin up at him, too, and stayed.)

It happened completely by accident. She turned to avoid to bumping into someone, and another socialite had smashed right into her because of it, glass of red wine sloshing over the rim and all over the suit.

She looked down at it.

Red on white, seeping quick and deep, all down her front.

She breathed, breathed.

 _How many times-_

Just last night, a little girl had bled out under her hands, a bullet wound to the chest and nothing she could do but wait for an ambulance that came too late. Two nights ago, rivulets of red had poured down a lanky fifteen year old's nose, the blood dripping onto his tattered clothes as he sobbed like it hurt to breathe, curled into himself and shaking all over, his accoster laying crumpled in the alleyway behind them. A week ago, an old woman hit by a car, gasping in pain as frail old bones snapped in all the wrong ways. Two weeks ago, Nightwing, smiling at her with bloodied teeth even as his eyes rolled to the back of his head and he collapsed, convulsing.

Her own knuckles, every night, bloody and bruised. Knife cuts. Bullet wounds. Concussions and skinned knees.

 _Blood dribbling from her lips as it rose from her throat, escaping her in wet coughs that rattled her entire chest, pain from broken bones and endless torture collapsing over her in waves, the soft, scratchy feelings of white sheets underneath her, the sight of them quickly turning red, the feel of Batman's grip in her own, her own voice, echoing, echoing-_

" _Was I a good Robin?"_

" _Of course you were,"_ he had told her, broken and tired and ashamed, " _of course you were,"_ and they had both been squeezing each other's hands too tight, even as she had slipped into oblivion.

Red on white, red on white, _how many times-_

(One time a small child had asked her if it hurt, to die, and his eyes were so big and pained and broken. Stephanie had told him that it was easier than anything else she had ever done, and the relief in his smile would haunt her for years to come.)

She breathed, breathed.

All her broken parts were simply sharp broken pieces for her to wield as weapons. She was made of marble and her rough edges just added to her masterpiece.

She closed her eyes, opened them, refocused on the world around her, on the young man apologizing to her.

"It's fine. Don't worry about it. Seriously."

The words came out mechanical and clipped, and her fingers curled into the edge of the suit jacket, felt the way the liquid coated her palms when she squeezed, and felt sick to her stomach.

 _How many times- how many times-_

And then Bruce came stumbling into the circle, loud and obnoxious and annoying, and only she could see the small way he gestured at her, indicating that he had this covered, that she could go.

She didn't bother giving a nod back, just stepped away and away and away until she disappeared, the only trace of her ever being there a few drips of pale red on the tiled ballroom floor.

The man found her later, sitting on top of the washing machine and perusing her phone, wearing only her boxers and one of Tim's old shirts. She would be embarrassed, but he's seen her in less- when your in the business, medical emergencies take precedence over prudity- and in all honesty she was too tired to care.

"It won't wash out."

She hummed, flitted to another image.

"Hello to you too, Bruce."

"It was a white suit. It won't wash out. Especially with all that paint."

She grunted.

Silence.

For all that Stephanie loved to stomp on eggshells, she and Bruce danced around each other in an ever precarious balancing act. He felt guilty, she felt tired, he wanted her to stop hero work, she never stopped lifting her chin and refusing.

They were different, maybe, in ways that made them like magnetic poles. He pushed it all in like it was the only thing left to ground him and she pushed it all out like it was the only thing that could stop her from flying.

He could never understand that Stephanie became her own hero in a world that pushed her past the breaking point too many times, and no one had ever saved her.

It didn't help that Bruce was a fundamentally incredibly awkward person, who tucked so much away he sometimes forgot how to even let anything out at all, including emotions.

(Sometimes, Stephanie thought she forgave him. Sometimes, she hated him more than even Cluemaster. Most of the time, she found that she had trouble caring, not when there was so much of everything else in her life to deal with, not when she had long ago learned to put herself first because anything else meant becoming nothing more that marbled dust.)

"It's the principle of the thing."

Bruce nodded. Stood perfectly still. In most people, that would probably translate into someone balancing on their heels, wavering forwards and wavering back.

She sighed, patted the spot next to her.

"C'mon, then."

He sat besides her, stilted.

It made her smile, the comedy of it all: Bruce was a big man, and he looked out of place and almost small in the sterile white washing room.

They didn't say anything. There weren't really any words left to say. Stephanie was a girl made of marble long before Batman and Robin and all that came with it, all they did was smooth out some edges and shatter some others.

And all of her broken parts were her sharpest swords, so she supposed she couldn't complain much.

The machine stopped. She got off and dumped the clothes into the dryer, frowning at the pale remnants of colours, the red stain still glaring angrily up at her.

 _It's the principle of the thing,_ she repeated to herself, and slammed the door shut to start the cycle.

Twenty minutes of silence later, she took the clothes out and put them in a laundry basket. She needed to steal some pants from Tim's room, to get back to her apartment and finish off an essay. She should probably patrol.

Halfway out the door, though, she stopped, could feel Bruce's stare at the back of her shoulder blades, wondered if his eyes were tracing scars.

"Thank you," she said, haltingly, because Bruce wasn't the only one who had trouble with being sincere with their emotions, "for what you did back there. I didn't need help but- yeah."

Bruce didn't say anything.

She wasn't expecting him to, and walked out the door with her arms full of ruined suit.

Two days later, she found a carton full of different paints sitting on her kitchen counter, enough to cover any stain. She grinned- something sharp and something fierce and something just a little broken and just a little healed- rolled her eyes, grabbed the suit from where it was tucked away in her closet and headed down to the alleyway.

Perhaps they would never understand each other, she and Bruce, not where it counted.

Perhaps that didn't matter.

She splattered paint on material meant to be solid and pure, and smoothed out some new edges of her ever changing masterpiece.

Stephanie Brown was carved out of a lifetime of broken parts. It never stopped her from creating something new, from smoothing over rough edges of marble and starting anew, from meeting the gaze of a world that pushed her down and raising her chin against it, from dancing in crowded ballrooms like she still believed in happy endings.

Who knew?

Maybe she did.

Maybe this was her learning to start.

 **...**

 **So many thank you's to all my favouriters/followers! Britt30, BbrittanyRose1, TopazFireCrystal, Catlyn-Cat987, KillaZillaX10A, spot6600, and 1412PhantomWriter27, I'm looking at you!**

 **To my beautiful, amazing reviewers, Britt30 and AlecGateway, you are so very sweet and kind and I'm so so happy you liked! Special applause for Britt30, who reviewed EVERY SINGLE CHAPTER I ACTUALLY LOVE YOU THANK YOU SO MUCH.**

 **Hope you enjoyed this chapter!**

 **Till Next Time,**

 **Mashpotatoe Queen**


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